Who puts a library in a water tank?
Chicago does; that's who.
If you’re a fan of Chicago history, you may have heard that Britain donated thousands of books after the Great Chicago Fire. It was a collective act of generosity that helped a city struggling to rebuild. The books were intended to fill the public library.
Only problem was, Chicago didn’t have a public library.
Six months later, a city ordinance established the Chicago Public Library.
Which presented another problem: where to put all those books?
In early April 1872, Chicago was still cleaning up rubble. The residents were also a bit nervous about protecting those tomes, considering millions had gone up in smoke the previous fall.
They found the perfect place: an old iron water tank.
Encased in walls of solid brick and stone masonry, the iron tank had already proven it was fireproof.
It also had a hollow center fifty-eight feet in diameter. Library board president Thomas Hoyne christened it a new “reservoir” of knowledge. (Ba dum bum.)
On January 1, 1873, this unique repository opened its doors, and while the books weren’t quite ready to be checked out, there were current periodicals and newspapers, and more than 50,000 people visited the library in its first five months.
Read more about the story behind what is now the Chicago Cultural Center.
Later this week we’ll meet the misanthrope whose architectural influence still reverberates.
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The Ballad of Nelly and the Great Chicago Fire
(A Rhyming Tale of Mayhem and Flame)
It happened one night in a barn made of sticks,
With lanterns and hay and some old farmer tricks.
Nelly stepped in with her usual flair,
Hair in a braid and manure in the air.
The cow stood there calm, big-eyed and wide,
Chewin’ her cud with a smirk she could not hide.
“I’ll handle this heifer,” Nelly did say,
But Clementine had other plans that day.
The old man laughed from a crate by the stall,
“She won’t do no harm, she’s gentle, that’s all.”
Just then with a grunt and a roll of her eye,
The cow kicked Nelly, sent her straight to the sky.
She landed hard with a groan and a yell,
Then burped like a toad from a deep country well.
She farted so loud the rafters shook loose,
Then crapped on the floor like a goose on the loose.
The wind from her rear blew the barn cat away,
Out through the door and straight into the hay.
The moon shined down on the tit of her chest,
Gleamin’ like silver atop all the mess.
The lantern fell down with a terrible crash,
Sparks hit the hay in a fiery flash.
The blaze rose high with a thunderous roar,
As Nelly stood gasping, covered in gore.
The old man panicked, grabbed what he could get,
Then launched at her face a big bucket of shit.
“Hold still!” he cried, with no real aim,
As flames danced around them like devils in shame.
But the fire spread fast, no hope left to cope,
It swallowed the barn, the bales, and the rope.
And soon it leapt from the stable to street,
Turning the city to ash in the heat.
So now when folks speak of that great, grim desire,
That lit up Chicago in rivers of fire,
They whisper one name with a mixture of dread:
“Nelly the gas-bomb who blew flames ahead.”
And the lesson, dear friends, from this scorched little yarn?
Don’t pass gas near lanterns inside of a barn.