f the world, you know, are to become the kingdoms of our
Lord and of his Christ.

_Austin._ You have told us a great deal indeed, to-day, about the
prairies.

_Hunter._ I have already spoken of the prairie fires; I mean the
burning grass set on fire by accident, or purposely, for the double
advantage of obtaining a clearer path and an abundant crop of fresh
grass; but I must relate an adventure of my own, of a kind not likely
to be forgotten. So long as a prairie fire is confined to the high
grounds, there is very little danger from it; for, in such situations,
the grass being short, the fire never becomes large, though the line
of flame is a long one. Birds and beasts retire before it in a very
leisurely manner; but in plains where the grass is long, it is very
different.

_Austin._ I should like to see one of those great, high, round bluffs
on fire. There must be a fine bonfire then.

_Hunter._ There you are mistaken, for as I have already told you, the
grass is short on the bluffs. To be sure, the sight of a bluff on
fire, on a dark night, is very singular; for as you can only see the
curved line of flame, the bluff being hidden by the darkness, so it
seems as though the curved lines of flame were up in the air, or in
the sky.

_Basil._ They must look very beautifully.

_Hunter._ They do: but when a fire takes place in a low bottom of long
grass, sedge and tangled dry plants, more than six feet high; and when
a rushing wind urges on the fiery ruin, flashing like the lightning
and roaring like the thunder; the appearance is not beautiful, but
terrible. I have heard the shrill war-whoop, and the clash of
contending tomahawks in the fight, when no quarter has been given. I
have witnessed the wild burst where Niagara, a river of waters, flings
itself headlong down the Horseshoe Fall; and I have been exposed to
the fury of the hurricane. But none of these are half so terrible as
the flaming ocean of a long-grass prairie-fire.

_Austin._ Oh! it must be terrible.

_Hunter._ The trapper is bold, or he is not fit for his calling; the
hunter is brave, or he could never wage war as he does with danger;
and the Indian from his childhood is familiar with peril: yet the
Indian, the hunter and the trapper tremble, as well they may, at a
prairie-meadow fire. But I must relate my adventure.

_Basil._ I am almost afraid to hear it.

_Austin._ Poh! nonsense! It will never hurt you.

_Hunter._ A party of five of us, well