  THE sky is glowing in one ruddy sheet;— A cry of fire! resounds from door to door; And westward still the thronging people pour;— The turncock hastens to F. P. 6 feet, And quick unlocks the fountains of the street; While rumbling engines, with increasing roar, Thunder along to luckless Number Four, Where Mr. Dough makes bread for folks to eat. And now through blazing frames, and fiery beams, The Globe, the Sun, the Phoenix, and what not, With gushing pipes throw up abundant streams, On burning bricks, and twists, on rolls—too hot— And scorching loaves,—as if there were no shorter And cheaper way of making toast-and-water!
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