A Tale of the Great Quake.
One glorious morning, after the great earthquake
of October 21, 1868, had with some difficulty shaken
me into my trousers and boots, I left the house.
I may as well state that I left it immediately, and
by an aperture constructed for another purpose.
Arrived in the street, I at once betook myself to
saving people. This I did by remarking closely
the occurrence of other shocks, giving the alarm
and setting an example fit to be followed. The
example was followed, but owing to the vigour with
which it was set was seldom overtaken. In passing
down Clay-street I observed an old rickety brick
boarding-house, which seemed to be just on the
point of honouring the demands of the earthquake
upon its resources. The last shock had subsided,
but the building was slowly and composedly settling
into the ground. As the third story came down to
my level, I observed in one of the front rooms a
young and lovely female in white, standing at a
door trying to get out. She couldn't, for the door
was locked—I saw her through the key-hole. With
a single blow of my heel I opened that door, and
opened my arms at the same time.
“Thank God,” cried I, “I have arrived in time.
Come to these arms.”
The lady in white stopped, drew out an eye-glass,
placed it carefully upon her nose, and taking an
inventory of me from head to foot, replied:
“No thank you; I prefer to come to grief in
the regular way.”
While the pleasing tones of her voice were still
ringing in my ears I noticed a puff of smoke rising
from near my left toe. It came from the chimney
of that house.
