“Beautiful daughter you have there, Mr. McCourt—aren’t you afraid someone will steal her?” I thought this much more fun than associating with girls my own age, and when the first fire started I was, as usual, down at the store. It began up the street, and since all the buildings were frame, spread rapidly. I ran home with the news. “Mama, our store’s on fire!” I yelled at the top of my lungs as soon as I got home. Our house was a palatial one on Division street easily to be compared with the fine residences on stately oak-lined Algoma boulevard. We even kept a maid of all work—but these good days were soon to pass. July 14, 1874, was a fatal day. Mama came running out on the verandah, and the expression on her face was dreadful. Up to that moment I had only thought of the excitement of it all. But when I saw her horror and dismay I realized the danger. Perhaps Papa would be killed fighting the fire—or if he lived through it, he might not have enough money to build a new store and stock it. All sorts of awful thoughts ran through my head and they were true forebodings. We lost both our store and our lovely house in this disaster. So did lots of other brave people. It seems impossible when I think of it now. But there were actually seven hundred structures—houses, barns, and places of business that had to be rebuilt that summer. The smell of new lumber, which goodness knows we were used to in Oshkosh, now came from our own front yards. Since our house was lost, we went to stay with more fortunate friends of Mama’s until we could re-build. We had our lumber delivered to their yard so that it wouldn’t be stolen. It was all very exciting. “Frontier courage,” Mama said. “Faith,” Papa contradicted, because he believed everything that happened was God’s will. The hammering, banging and shouting that summer were terrific. The noise and energy made a deep impression on me. My brothers and I would walk around and watch the bustling, stimulating activity. It was one of the most delightful vacations I ever spent. That year I didn’t go down to the waterfront as much as I generally did, to watch the steamers hauling fleets of logs and timbers. I didn’t bother to see the graceful yachts of the Oshkosh Yacht Club go skimming out over the broad blue waters of the lake toward Calumet County on the eastern shore. I just watched the carpentry sideshows along Main Street. It was the next spring that brought final tragedy to Papa’s fortunes. He and his partner had just got a store re-built and running again when the Lord’s chastisement fell once more. It was a windy spring day, April 28, 1875, that another fire broke out, this time in Morgan’s mill. Papa had been home to dinner and it was just past one o’clock when I was shepherding my younger brothers and sister, Claudia, back to school. As we started down the street a lumberman on a horse came galloping up. “We need every able-bodied man down by Fox River. Fire in Morgan’s mill,” he yelled to Papa.