American Tall Tales by Mary Pope Osborne

Author:Mary Pope Osborne [Osborne, Mary Pope]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-0-307-98259-9
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2013-08-28T04:00:00+00:00

“Look at that!” a newsboy shouted. “It takes only six men to work her!”

As Mose peered over the heads of the crowd, he saw that indeed the boy was right. One firefighter was stoking the steamer’s shiny brass chamber with coal, one was tending to her elegant black horses, and the other four were aiming her mighty hose at the roaring flames.

“Out of my way!” Mose shouted.

“Don’t worry, Mose, she’s under control,” an apple seller called to him cheerfully. “Your old pumper’s no match for that machine.”

Mose was so angry, he began pacing back and forth, huffing and puffing. As he paced, he listened to the newsboys and fruit sellers.

“The mayor says they’ll be all over the city soon.”

“Yep. He’s hiring professional trained firemen to run those fancy machines.”

“Say good-bye to the old pumpers.”

“Yeah, and the volunteers, too. Hey, look, the steamer’s put out the fire!”

“Things are changin’ in this city.”

As Mose listened to the newsboys, he started pounding his giant fist into the palm of his hand. He began rocking back and forth with rage. Then suddenly he grabbed the wooden handles of Lady Washington and began pushing her toward the river.

“Chief, what are you doing?” one of his men cried.

“Wait!” shouted the others. “Wait!”

But there was no stopping Mose as he picked up speed and started running toward the end of the dock. He gave one last push, sending the old pumper over the edge of the dock.

The crowd heard a huge splash! as Lady Washington crashed into the Hudson River. Everyone was silent as Mose slowly turned around. He stared at his fellow volunteers with dazed eyes, then staggered away alone.

Mose disappeared from his old haunts after that. Nobody knew for sure what had happened to him. For years folks speculated on his whereabouts. In soup houses, on steamboat piers, in stale barrooms, they asked, “Heard anything about Mose?”

Sometimes folks answered, “Oh, didn’t you hear? He went west and made a fortune in the California gold rush.”

“Oh, didn’t you hear? He’s driving a mule team in the Dakota territory.”

“He’s leading a wagon train across the country.”

“He’s part of the pony express.”

“He’s working for President Lincoln.”

But one evening, one of the old fire volunteers, playing checkers on a worn bench near the old station house on the Bowery, had this to say: “If you want to know the truth about Mose, pay attention to me. He’s among us still. I seen him hanging around lampposts on cold winter nights. I seen him sleeping in burned-out old tenements. I seen him walking along the foggy wharfs.

“You could say Mose is the spirit of old New York. And when all them shiny new machines decide to break down, and when the city fire-alarm bell starts to ring again, watch out. Because by then, you know, that fireman will have grown to be at least twenty feet tall.”

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