The city of Butte, Montana, is built over a mine which has been
on fire for seventeen years, not blazing out, but smoldering
quietly, every effort being made to keep out the air, without
which it can not spread very rapidly.
As to the origin of this fire the story is that a miner named
Henshaw left his candle burning on a pine beam in the mine when
he finished work one day seventeen years ago.
“Goin’ to leave the glim there, Bill?” his partner queried.
“Sure; what’s the difference?”
“Oh, nothin’, only there’ll be nobody round here for quite a
while and I was just thinkin’ that if a fire started it might
spread.”
“Well, we’ll take chances; let’s go!” was the glum response.
They went out, but the fire didn’t. A set of timbers caught and
the flames spread quickly.
Since that time thousands of men have been engaged in fighting
this fire without complete success, for it still burns, and a
fortune has been expended in the conflict.
What a price to pay for a foolish act! All acts of carelessness are not
followed by such serious consequences, but there is always an element
of risk in doing the wrong thing.
In how many lives has the fire of sin been kindled by some deed of
folly in early life, and it still smolders in the soul, cursing the
man’s whole being.--_Onward._
(319)