Flash:" The Fireman's Story.

"Flash" was a white-foot sorrel, an' run on Number Three:         Not much stable manners - an average horse to see;         Notional in his methods - strong in loves an' hates;         Not very much respected, or popular 'mongst his mates;         Dull an' moody an' sleepy, an' "off" on quiet days;         Full o' turbulent, sour looks, an' small, sarcastic ways;         Scowled an' bit at his partner, an' banged the stable floor -         With other means intended to designate life a bore.         But when, be't day or night time, he heard the alarm-bell ring,         He'd rush for his place in the harness with a regular tiger spring;         An' watch, with nervous shivers, the clasp of buckle an' band,         Until 'twas plainly evident he'd like to lend a hand.         An' when the word was given, away he would rush an' tear,         As if a thousand witches was rumplin' up his hair,         An' craze the other horses with his magnetic charm,         Till every hoof-beat sounded a regular fire-alarm!         Never a horse a jockey would notice an' admire         Like Flash in front of his engine a-runnin' to a fire;         Never a horse so lazy, so dawdlin', an' so slack,         As Flash upon his return trip, a-drawin' the engine back.         Now, when the different horses gets tender-footed an' old,         They're no use in our business; so Flash was finally sold         To quite a respectable milkman, who found it not so fine         A-bossin' one o' God's creatures outside it's natural line.         Seems as if I could see Flash a-mopin' along here now,         Feelin' that he was simply assistant to a cow;         But sometimes he'd imagine he heard the alarm-bell's din,         An' jump an' rear for a season before they could hold him in;         An' once, in spite o' his master, he strolled in 'mongst us chaps,         To talk with the other horses, of former fires, perhaps;         Whereat the milkman kicked him; whereat, us boys to please,         He begged that horse's pardon upon his bended knees.         But one day, for a big fire as we was makin' a dash,         Both o' the horses we had on somewhat resemblin' Flash,         Yellin' an' ringin' an' rushin', with excellent voice an' heart,         We passed the poor old fellow, a-tuggin' away at his cart.         If ever I see an old hoss grow upward into a new -         If ever I see a milkman whose traps behind him flew,         'Twas that old hoss, a-rearin' an' racin' down the track,         An' that respectable milkman a-tryin' to hold him back.         Away he rushed like a cyclone for the head o' "Number Three,"         Gained the lead, an' kept it, an' steered his journey free;         Dodgin' wagons an' horses, an' still on the keenest "silk,"         An' furnishin' all that neighborhood with good, respectable milk.         Crowd a-yellin' an' runnin', an' vainly hollerin' "Whoa!"         Milkman bracin' an' sawin', with never a bit o' show;         Firemen laughin' an' chucklin', an' shoutin' "Good! go in!"         Hoss a-gettin' down to it, an' sweepin' along like sin.         Finally came where the fire was - halted with a "thud;"         Sent the respectable milkman heels over head in mud;         Watched till he see the engines properly workin' there,         After which he relinquished all interest in the affair.         Moped an' wilted an' dawdled, "faded away" once more,         Took up his old occupation - considerin' life a bore;         Laid down in his harness, an' - sorry I am to say -         The milkman he had drawn there took his dead body away.         That's the whole o' my story: I've seen, more'n once or twice,         That poor dead animals' actions is full o' human advice;         An' if you ask what Flash taught, I'll simply answer, then,         That poor old horse was a symbol of some intelligent men.         An' if, as some consider, there's animals in the sky,         I think the poor old fellow is gettin' another try;         But if he should sniff the big fire that plagues the abode o' sin,         It'll take the strongest angel to hold the old fellow in.                  *             *             *             *             *     MARCH 20, 18 - .             Speaking of fires, my powers of language fail;             They run them here upon so large a scale.             My son, Charles Sumner (who is, by-the-way,             In Europe - terms ten dollars by the day,             Paid strictly in advance), can rhyme somewhat,             And often seems to me to touch the spot,             And light the truth up with a healthier glare,             And make it truthfuller for his being there.             (But in such furrows human nature runs,             That old men aren't good critics for their sons.)             He used to rush (as youngsters often will)             To every fire we had at Tompkins Hill,             And seemed to plan less how to put them out             Than to get something new to write about.             He struck a rhyme I think isn't over bad,             About a "fire" our little village had             (Or city; for that town took city airs             Before its village short-clothes reached repairs).             I found a copy of it t'other day             Where he had laid it carefully away,             To keep me from not finding it (he meant             To get it back in the next check I sent).             'Twill cost me several dollars yet, I fear; -             I'll paste the fellow's nonsense right in here: