A fire broke out in Bildad's shack and burned it to the ground; and
Bildad, with his roofless pack, sent up a doleful sound. And I, who
lived the next door west, hard by the county jail, went over there and
beat my breast, and helped poor Bildad wail. Around the ruined home I
stepped, and viewed the shaking walls, and people say the way I wept
would beat Niagara Falls. Then words of sympathy I dealt to Bildad and
his wife; such kindly words, I've always felt, nerve people for the
strife. If I can kill with words your fears, or argue grief away, or
drown your woe by shedding tears, call on me any day. I have a
sympathetic heart that bleeds for others' aches, and I will ease your
pain and smart unless the language breaks. And so to Bildad and his
mate I made a helpful talk, with vital truths that elevate and break
disasters' shock; I pointed out that stricken men should not yield to
the worst, but from the wreckage rise again like flame from torch
reversed.
Then Johnson interrupted me as I was growing hoarse. A rude, offensive
person he, a tactless man and coarse.
He said to Bildad, "Well, old pard! You are burned out I see! You
can't keep house here in your yard, so come and live with me!"
The neighbors who had gathered round applauded Johnson then, declaring
that at last they'd found the kindliest of men; not one appreciative
voice for me, who furnished tears, who made the sad man's heart
rejoice, and drove way his fears!