Fireman o'Rafferty by Joseph C. Lincoln — Read

A cloud of cinder-dotted smoke, whose billows rise and swell, / Thrust through by seething swords of flame that roar like blasts from hell; / A floor whose charring timbers groan and creak beneath the tread, / With starting planks that, gaping, show long lines of sullen red; / Great, hissing, scalding jets of steam that, lifting now, disclose / A crouching figure gripping tight the nozzle of a hose, / The dripping, rubber-coated form, scarce seen amid the murk, / Of Fireman Mike O'Rafferty attending to his work.

Pressed close against the blistered floor, he strives the fire to drown, / And slowly, surely, steadfastly, he fights the demon down; / And then he seeks the window-frame, all sashless, blank and bare, / And wipes his plucky Irish face and gasps a bit for air; / Then, standing on the slimy ledge, as narrow as his feet, / He hums a tune, and looks straight down six stories to the street; / Far, far below he sees the crowd's pale faces flush and fade, / But Fireman Mike O'Rafferty can't stop to be afraid.