"Fire! The place is afire!" Addison exclaimed.
We jumped up and looked out. The whole yard was brilliantly illuminated;
then we saw that our load by the garden fence was on fire, and burning
fiercely.
Throwing on a few clothes, we rushed downstairs. The hotel keeper and
his hostler were already out with buckets of water, but could do little.
The load was ablaze, and those dry, pitchy witches' brooms flamed up
tremendously. Fortunately, the wind carried the flame and sparks away
from the tavern and barns, or the whole establishment might have burned
down. The crackling was terrific; the firs as well as the witches'
brooms burned. Great gusts of flame and vapor rose, writhing and
twisting in the wind. Any one might have imagined them to be witches of
the olden time, riding wildly away up toward the half-obscured moon!
So great was the heat that it proved impossible to save the rack and
sleds, or even the near-by garden fence, which had caught fire.
That disaster ended the trip. It was now too near Christmas Day to get
more large firs, to say nothing of witches' brooms; and we were obliged
to send word to this effect to our Portland patrons.
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