The corn being stripped off the stalks, Olive’s fairy forest was sadly mutilated, for the great ears were all gone and many of the streaming leaves were torn away; the walk to the spring, therefore, was no longer so delightful as it had been earlier in the summer. Still she and Diana used to go there pretty often, especially since Napoleon Pompey was always kept busy helping in the field. Coming up from the spring one afternoon just before sun-down, she was amazed to see her husband galloping madly along the far side of the field on Queen Katherine, the big brown mare, her harness banging her hot flanks at every stride, while Napoleon Pompey on Rebel was tearing after him waving his tattered old straw hat. Olive for a moment or two stared in blank amazement at them, and then began to run towards the house which appeared to be their destination also. Ezra and Napoleon Pompey with frantic gestures seemed to invite her attention to the setting sun, now sinking to rest like a shimmering copper ball. She looked, but saw nothing except the molten mass, unless it were a faint blue haze on the horizon, the result, as she supposed, of the intense heat. When Olive reached the house a few moments later, it was to see her husband going hurriedly down the road to the bars on the other side of the house. The horses were hitched to the plough and were trotting fast, while Napoleon Pompey was urging them on with voice and whip. The plough, unaccustomed to such speed, was jerking from side to side. A moment’s halt at the bars, while Napoleon Pompey threw down the rails, and Ezra turning round put both hands to his mouth and shouted “Fire” in a long re-echoing whoop. He wheeled around then and seizing his plough-handles set off at a hand-gallop, bounding along with his ungainly implement. Now Olive understood what that blue haze meant. It was a prairie fire coming down on them from the west along with a fierce wind. Oh dear! oh dear! What should she do? There must be something women could help at, in such a moment, if she only knew what. But who to ask? Everybody was far away, and the dreadful fire began to show up now that the sun was no longer casting such bright rays. “Come ’long, git yer shingle,” shouted a familiar voice behind her. “Oh, Willette, is that you? What shall I do? It’s a fire, and I don’t know what’s wanted.” “Nothin’ but a shingle an’ a box o’ matches. Quick now! We’ll hev ter pike, you bet. Pa and Ma is out firin’ a’ready down yonder, ’side our house.” “I am so glad you’ve come,” said Olive hurrying along with two wooden shingles under her arm. The shingles were merely the thin wooden “slates” with which the houses were roofed. When thoroughly dried they are admirably adapted for spreading a fire from house to house in a street, and accordingly they are now prohibited by law in most towns and cities. On the prairie they were used in emergencies as paddles to keep the back-firing within limits.