Across the dry grassland plain toward Lincoln they sped, rabbits who’d left their run too late, on a withering Wednesday in February 1932. Searing nor’ wester at their tail, spreading fire as they fled.

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The fire was rapid, the area vast. It was a close run thing but all pitched in,

from sale yard, college, farm and town the locals rallied, torn limb of pine, shovel and wet sack in hand.

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A lull in the wind sure helped, but hard work won the day and when the fire was finally beaten it was roundly said,“that cold beer had  never tasted so good.”