little savings he had scraped together in a decade of years seemed to melt before him, but he that night knelt and thanked his God that his wife and child were by his side. These treasures were near him and all else might go. He had his strong and willing hands still left, and a firm spirit, and though for a while he would miss the little comforts he had been accustomed to, yet would he battle with the world again, and in the coming years try to win back some of the fruits he had lost. Men in the excitement knew not what to take first, and pianos were thrown out of three-story windows, while carpets that had worn worthily and well till they had become heir-looms in the family, were carefully borne down stairs on the broad shoulders of stout porters. A thousand human beings stood in the square watching the flames lashing the buildings before them. John Boyd, Esq's residence, one of the handsomest buildings in the city, richly furnished and equipped with costly books, was attacked on both sides, and soon forced to yield and go down like the less substantial buildings at its side. The house of G. B. Cushing, Esq., was of wood, and it was not long before the site on which it stood was level with the ground. Before the house of Mr. E. L. Jewett, once the home of the late Dr. Gray, had taken fire, a gentleman tried to save it by standing on the roof and dashing a pitcher of water on the sparks as they caught vulnerable spots. For an hour or more he stood there with his pitcher, when it became evident to him that no effort that he could make would save the building, and he got down, leaving the pitcher standing on a ledge of the chimney. The fire shortly afterwards burned the building, and left the long chimney standing against the sky; and the next day when the spot was visited, and people walked over the heap of ashes that had once been a household, all that was saved was the old pitcher, that still stood on the ledge of the chimney solitary and alone. It told the story of the desolation more eloquently than tongue of orator could speak, or pen of a Macaulay could describe. The house of ex-Mayor Woodward, with its hundreds of curiosities and old relics, including Major André's gun and a score of Continental dollars, caught in the rear, and lived but a few minutes in the flames. But so it was all round the square. When Mrs. Stevenson's strong house was going to pieces, a flock of pigeons hovering near it were drawn in by the heat; they whirled about for an instant, turned and rushed into the vortex, and perished in a second. A cat, maddened and wild, cut off from all escape, dashed along, when the fire pursued her, and she stood still. On Thursday morning she was still standing in the same place. Her frame only could be seen, with head up and tail erect; it was a ghastly sight. It was during the conflagration on the square, that a little child, five years old, sat by the window of his grandfather's house,