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: HOW WE FOUGHT THE FIRE. I. 'Twas a drowsy night on Tompkins Hill: The very leaves of the trees lay still; The world was slumbering, ocean deep; And even the stars seemed half asleep, And winked and blinked at the roofs below, As yearning for morn, that they might go. The streets as stolid and still did lie As they would have done if streets could die; The sidewalks stretched as quietly prone As if a foot they had never known; And not a cottage within the town, But looked as if it would fain lie down. Away in the west a stacken-cloud, With white arms drooping and bare head bowed, Was leaning against--with drowsy eye-- The dark blue velveting of the sky. And that was the plight Things were in that night, Before we were roused the foe to fight-- The foe so greedy and grand and bright-- That plagued old Deacon Tompkins. II.