t, and passing over a sidling
narrow way down the bluff, it follows the bottom lands upstream. As we
passed this point we did not notice Tell Mapleson's black pony just
making the top from the sidling bluff way, nor how quickly its rider
wheeled and headed back again down beyond sight of the level prairie
road. We had forgotten Lettie Conlow and everybody else.

The draw was the same old verdant ripple in the surface of the Plains.
The grasses were fresh and green. Toward the river the cottonwoods were
making a cool, shady way, delightfully refreshing in this summer
sunshine.

We did not hurry, for the draw was full of happy memories for us.

"I'll corral these bronchos up under the big cottonwood, and we'll
explore appurtenances down by the river later," I said. "Father says
every foot of the half-section ought to be viewed from that tree, except
what's in the little clump about the cabin."

We drove up to the open prairie again and let the horses rest in the
shade of this huge pioneer tree of the Plains. How it had escaped the
prairie fires through its years of sturdy growth is a marvel, for it
commanded the highest point of the whole divide. Its shade was delicious
after the glare of the trail.

For once the ponies seemed willing to stand quiet, and Marjie and I
looked long at the magnificent stretch of sky and earth. There were a
few white clouds overhead, deepening to a dull gray in the southwest.
All the sunny land was swathed in the midsummer yellow green, darkening
in verdure along the river and creeks, and in the deepest draws. Even as
we rested there the clouds rolled over the horizon's edge, piling higher
and higher, till they hid the afternoon sun, and the world was cool and
gray. Then down the land sped a summer shower; and the sweet damp odor
of its refreshing the south wind bore to us, who saw it all. Sheet
after sheet of glittering raindrops, wind-driven, swept across the
prairie, and the cool green and the silvery mist made a scene a master
could joy to copy.

I didn't forget my errand, but it was not until the afternoon was
growing late that we left the higher ground and drove down the shady
draw toward the river. The Neosho is a picture here, with still expanses
that mirror the trees along its banks, and stony shallows where the
water, even in midsummer, prattles merrily in the sunshine, as it
hurries toward the deep stillnesses.

We sat down in a cool, grassy space with the river before us, a