Soon after the Great Chicago Fire burned from October 8 to 10, 1871, this anonymous poem appeared in the Chicago Evening Post. It distills in one stanza, complete with mischievous bovine protagonist, one of our most enduring modern myths. As the story goes, in an unnumbered shed behind the cottage at 137 De Koven Street in Chicago, a hitherto unremarkable cow kicked the lantern lighting her milking. One of five cows in this informal dairy, she normally yielded easily to the patient caress of her udder by practiced hands. But it was hot and dry; there’d only been five inches of rain since July. Maybe Catherine O’Leary’s cowshed was sweltering. Maybe there were too many biting flies in the air. Maybe the normally compliant cow just didn’t want to give it away that day. Whatever the cause, she kicked. Hard.
This article is adapted from Hannah B Higgins’ book “The Grid Book,” a meditation on ten grids that changed the world.
Over went the lamp, sparking a few odd pieces of hay. Mrs. O’Leary stomped them with a worn boot and uttered a few profanities — or so we would imagine. To no avail: More hay caught. Then the floorboards. Outside, the ground itself was tinder. Scraps of leaves ignited. The elevated wooden sidewalk and roadway. Ships along the Chicago River loaded with wood and coal. Buildings. City Hall. The opera. Theaters. The 13-day-old Palmer House Hotel. More buildings. In the end, a third of the city, about 2,000 acres including the entire business district, had burned to the ground. Nearly one-third of the city’s population of 300,000 were homeless.
