It is a far finer sentiment
than the cold-hearted calculation which looks ahead, and figures
out first whether it is worth while or not.
The men dash forward in the withering heat. With frantic haste
they fix the hook into the lattice-work beneath the porch and
scamper back.
"Yo hee! Yo hee!"
The thick rope tautens as the firemen lay their weight to it. You
can almost see the bristling fibers stand up on it.
"Yo hee! Yo hee!"
With a splintering crash the timber parts, and a piece of
lattice-work is dragged away.
Another sortie and another. Bit by bit the porch is ripped and
torn to rubbish. You smile. It seems so futile. What are these
kindlings saved when the whole house is burning? Is this what
you call heroism? Yet the charge at Balaklava was not more futile.
It had even less of commonsense, less of hope of benefit to mankind
to back it and inspire it. Heroism is an instinct, not a thoughtout
policy. Its quality is the same, in two-ounce samples or in
car-load lots.
The weather-boarding slips down in a sparkling fall. The joists
and stringers, all outlined and gemmed with coals, are, as it
were, a golden grille, through which the world may look unhindered
in upon the holy place of home, heretofore conventually private.
There stands the family altar, pitifully grotesque amid the ruinous
splendor of the destroying fire, the tea-kettle upon it proudly
flaunting its steamy plume.
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