You asked some of us to write a vivid account of the fire to you,
but to do so goes entirely beyond the power of my pen. It was
simply _awful_! During those dreadful days I was too frightened to
know what I was doing. I cried every time I would think that just
as we had got a home it would all be swept away in a minute. I was
nearly sick when the danger and excitement were over.
The heat was perfectly unbearable. It seemed as if we would
suffocate unless we could get a free breath of fresh air. The air
was just as if it had come from an oven, and the leaves on our
trees in front of the house are as brown as if they had been put
into an oven and baked, and this even after all the rain we have
had since.
It was so dark here on the Monday after you left that we lit our
lamps at two o'clock, and at five I went out of the door to go into
the office, and I could not see my hand before my face, and so hot!
It was enough to make stouter hearts than mine quail. Most of the
people here had their trunks packed. We did not, because we felt,
if our house went, we did not care for anything else. My eyes ache
so that I can not see to write much in the evenings now, or to do
any work. I send you some papers giving fuller descriptions of the
calamity than I can.