Those who were boys and girls in the Middle West in the year 1871, will have a vivid remembrance of the great comet that moved across the northern sky during the month of August. It was so large and brilliant, that before the sun had been altogether hidden in the west, the fiery orb of this celestial stranger could be seen glowing and as night came on the long tail would appear spreading out in a fan of light half way across the heavens. Mr. Allen was an educated man, whose favorite study in his school days had been astronomy, and although he had instructed his young sons as to the facts concerning comets, their relation to other heavenly bodies and to the earth, the rumor which had found its way into this Wisconsin wilderness home, that the world was to be destroyed by the “fervent heat” of this flaming visitor, had its effect upon the boys.
To the natural fear of the marvelous and unusual in the sky, was added the alarming conditions of a severe drouth, all over the county. Dauphin had told the boys how a burning wad from his gun had set fire to the dry peat in a marsh to the west, and the “ground” had been burning there in great holes for
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 more than a week. Before the close of July the river had ceased to run, and water was only to be found in the deep holes of its bed. The sky was brassy-looking in the day, and at night the moon had the appearance of blood. Then came weeks when a thick haze hung over all the land, and the sickly, yellow-hued sun could be looked upon with naked eyes. It seemed as if all nature was disturbed, frightened, and awaiting some impending calamity. The wild creatures of the forest, birds and animals, became strangely numerous. Deer were seen about the water holes in the day time, and seemed scarcely frightened when approached. Grey, black, and big, red fox-squirrels swarmed in the trees and on the fences. The little patch of sod corn the boys had planted on the “new breaking” that spring was harvested in the milk by the southward-moving emigrants of the forest.
A timber scout stopped over night at the hospitable home of Mr. Thompson and told how the little, lumber-manufacturing town of Peshtigo, up in the big woods northwest, had been wiped out by fire, scores of the inhabitants perishing before they could reach the river, so sudden was the coming of the storm of flame over the forest. Many others had been suffocated with smoke or overcome by the fierce heat and drowned even after they had reached the water. “The big woods from Lake Superior to Green Bay are burning,” said the traveler.
But what caused the more anxiety to the Allens
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 was the rumor he had heard at Pete-en-well Ferry that Chicago had been destroyed by fire, and nearly all the people burned.
The closing up of a matter of his former business had called Mr. Allen to that city some two weeks previous, and as it was past the time set for his return, the rumor brought by the timberman filled the family with alarm. Letters were rare with dwellers in that forest wilderness, but occasional trips were made to Dexter Crossing, where “tote” teams passing to the camps along the rivers of the far north would leave mail forwarded on to these settlers by the postmasters at the towns below.
Rob being the elder of the boys, proposed to make the trip at once to Dexter Crossing in the chance of a letter having been sent there to them by their father. There was, of course, danger that the great fire of the northeast might sweep down upon them any day, and as Dexter was well within the big woods the fate of one caught out there could be fearfully imagined. But the anxiety of the family as to the safety of Mr. Allen outweighed their caution, and Mrs. Allen gave her consent for Rob to make the trip.
The lad reached the settlement at Dexter Crossing safely, and to his joy found there a letter from his father. A great fire had indeed swept over the very heart of Chicago, destroying almost the entire business portion, and hundreds of lives had been lost. Fortunately Mr. Allen had been in a district not reached by the flames, and while he had been delayed by the
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 catastrophe, would be able to reach home the following week.
Impatient to be back at home with the good news, Rob resolved to start upon the return trip that night, walking ten miles or so, then resting until daybreak. Thoroughly wearied with his long tramp, he slept soundly when he finally lay down upon his bed of pine “needles.” When he awoke it was with a start and sense of discomfort. His watch said it was morning, past six o’clock, although it was still dark. The air was close and heavy and carried a pungent odor that made breathing somewhat difficult. Rob sprang to his feet, and munching his bread and bacon as he went, resumed his journey. Before he had traveled an hour, the tops of the tall pines had begun to moan in a rising wind, and a cloud of smoke was settling down like a pall from the sky. With a clutch of fear at his heart, Rob realized the meaning—the forest fire had reached that section; his hope of safety lay in reaching the more open country about his home before the storm of fire should be upon him.
Breaking into a “long run,” an exercise which the boys had practiced until they were able to keep up the gait for two or three miles, Rob began the race. The smoke grew more dense; tears ran down the boy’s face from smarting eyes. Choking for air, he bound his handkerchief about his mouth and nose, and ran on. Again and again he would stumble and fall over tree-roots rising in the way. Finally he noticed that close to the ground there was a current of cool, pure air,
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 and so, lying flat on his face, he would fill his lungs, then rise and dash forward as far as he could, and fall to the earth to breathe again.
While he lay gasping for breath after a long run, there came to his ears the sound as of a waterfall in the distance. The volume of sound increased until it became a roar, and all at once the pall of darkness broke out into a glare of blinding flame—the tempest of fire was upon him. The very air seemed to be on fire. A great pine would start into a blaze, and an ascending current of air snatching a limb or a burning bunch of cones would hurl it on into the top of another tree an hundred feet away. The first rush was quickly over. The resinous foliage of the green trees was soon licked up by the flames, but the awful destruction would continue for days.
The bed of dry “needles,” fallen leaves of the yearly shedding of the pines, made excellent kindling to light the great trunks of the forest giants, which, catching, would burn until consumed, or until extinguished by a heavy rain. Fortunately the latter usually occurred. Whether or not it be founded in fact, there is a saying widely accepted that every large battle and great fire is followed by a hard rainstorm. Thus it is that the greatest damage in forest fires is to the young timber, the small trees growing close together being left bare and dead, if not consumed at once. Among the big trees there is little underbrush, and while the foliage and small limbs are destroyed, and great holes sometimes burned in the trunks near the ground, the trees
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 recover, and put forth their green again the following spring.
All sense seemed to leave Rob except the one to keep going. No longer could he stand to run more than a few feet in the fierce heat. His hair was singed; the thick soles of his boots were cracked and shriveled up from stepping upon embers and burning limbs. His woolen jacket and trousers were a protection to his body, but when a dead tree, all ablaze, fell with a crash just in front of him, he felt that he could go no further. Almost without volition he crawled off to one side—and for a time lost consciousness. Soon he came to himself and realized that his blistered face and hands were deliciously cool, and that he was breathing easily. He had fortunately crawled into a little “swale,” one of the small, moss-covered depressions that mark the edge of the big forest, as it opens out into the small timber and marshes of the ancient lake. The little basin, filled with moss, was like a great sponge from which not all the moisture had been wrung by the fierce heat of the summer, and it meant life to Rob as he buried his face in it.
Danger to the lad from falling trees and flying firebrands was not over, but he was not far from the open prairie, now a blackened waste, and with heart anxious for the loved ones at home, he pushed on.
The fire had, after all, not been connected with the great fire of the northeast, but was local in extent, covering some ten miles from north to south, and perhaps fifteen from its eastern starting point, to where
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 it was stopped by the deep marshes on the west. The humble home on the Necedah river was unharmed, and great was the rejoicing that night as Rob returned alive, with the letter, although it was many weeks before the lad fully recovered from the experiences of that fearful trip through the burning forest.