nt to us, as they unrolled their springtime glory! From the
noonday blue of the sky overhead to the deep verdure of the land below,
there ranged every dainty tint of changeful coloring. Nature lavished
her wealth of loveliness here, that the dream of the New Jerusalem might
not seem a mere phantasy of the poet disciple who walked with the Christ
and was called of Him "The Beloved."

The prairies were beautiful to me at any hour, but most of all I loved
them in the long summer evenings when the burst of sunset splendor had
deepened into twilight. Then the afterglow softened to that purple
loveliness indescribably rare and sweet, wreathed round by gray
cloudfolds melting into exquisite pink, the last far echo of the
daylight's glory. It is said that any land is beautiful to us only by
association. Was it the light heart of my boyhood, and my merry
comrades, and most of all, the little girl who was ever in my thoughts,
that gave grandeur to these prairies and filled my memory with pictures
no artist could ever color on canvas? I cannot say, for all these have
large places in my mind's treasury.

From early spring to late October it was a part of each day's duty for
the youngsters of Springvale to go in the evening after the cows that
ranged on the open west. We went together, of course, and, of course, we
rode our ponies. Sometimes we went far and hunted long before we found
the cattle. The tenderest grasses grew along the draws, and these often
formed a deep wrinkle on the surface where our whole herd was hidden
until we came to the very edge of the depression. Sometimes the herd was
scattered, and every one must be rounded up and headed toward town
before we left the prairie. And then we loitered on the homeward way and
sang as only brave, free-spirited boys and girls can sing. And the
prairie caught our songs and sent them rippling far and far over its
clear, wide spaces.

As the twilight deepened, we drew nearer together, for comradeship meant
protection. Some years before, a boy had been stolen out on these
prairies one day by a band of Kiowas, and that night the mother drowned
herself in the Neosho above town. Her home had been in a little stone
cabin round the north bend of the river. It was in the sheltered draw
just below where the one lone cottonwood tree made a landmark on the
Plains--a deserted habitation now, and said to be haunted by the spirit
of the unhappy mother. The child's father, a handsome French Ca