and about house again.  Wash took one of our team horses, and he and Ellen went off to the squire’s to get yoked.  It was a most beautiful morning when they started, but the weather soon began to change—­there had been a most uncommon dry spell—­not a drop of rain for many weeks, nor hardly a breath of air in the woods, but now there came a most fearful wind and storm, and awful black clouds gathering through the sky—­the sun grew blood red, and looked most terrible through the smoke.  I had heard of such things as ’clipses, but neither the almanac, nor the old woman’s universal, said a word about it.  Altho’ there was such a wind, there was the most burning heat—­one could hardly breathe, and the baby lay pale and gasping—­we thought it was a dying.  The cattle grew oneasy, and all at once a herd of moose bounded into our chopping, and a lot of bears after them, all running as if for dear life.  I got down the rifle, and was just a going to let fly at them, when a scream from the old woman made me look about.  The woods were on fire all round us, and the smoke parting before us, showed the flames crackling and roaring like mad, ’till the very sky seemed on fire over our heads.  I did’nt know what to do, and, in fact, there was no time to calculate about it.  The blaze glared hotly on our faces, and all the wild critturs of the woods began to carry on most ridiculous, and shout and holler like all nature I caught up my axe, and the old woman the baby, and took the only open space left for us, where the stream was running, and the fire couldn’t catch.  Just as we were going, a horse came galloping most awful fast right through the fire—­it was poor Washington; his clothes all burnt, and his black hair turned white as snow, and oh! the fearful burden he carried in his arms.  Ellen Ross, the beautiful bright-eyed girl, who had left us so smilingly in the morning, lay now before us a scorched and blackened corpse—­the scared horse fell dead on the ground.  I hollered to Washington to follow us to the water, but he heard me not; and the flames closed fast o’er him and his dead bride—­poor fellow, that was the last on him—­and creation might be biled down, ere you could ditto him any how.  By chance our timber was lying near in the stream, and I got the old woman and the baby on a log, and stood beside them up to the neck in water, which now grew hot, and actilly began to hiss around me.  The trees on the other side of the river had caught, and there was an arch of flame right above us.  My stars! what a time we had of it!  Lucifees and minks, carraboo and all came close about us, and an Indian devil got upon the log beside my wife; poor critturs, they were all as tame as possible, and half frightened to death.  I thought the end of the world was come for sartain.  I tried to pray, but I was got so awful hungry, that grace before meat was all I could think off.  How long we had been there I couldn’t tell, but it seemed tome a ’tarnity—­fire, howsomever, cannot burn always—­that’s