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sultry, rainy weather, the clouds were full of sheetlightning, which every minute or two would suddenly illumine the landscape, revealing all its features, the hills and valleys, meadows and trees, about as fully and clearly as the noonday sunshine; then as suddenly the glorious light would be quenched, making the darkness seem denser than before. On such nights the cattle had to find the way home without any help from us, but they never got off the track, for they followed it by scent, like dogs. Once father, returning late from Portage or Kingston, compelled Tom and Jerry, our first oxen, to leave the dim track, imagining they must be going wrong. At last they stopped and refused to go farther. Then father unhitched them from the wagon, took hold of Tom's tail, and was thus led straight to the shanty. Next morning he set out to seek his wagon, and found it on the brow of a steep hill above an impassable swamp.

As I was the eldest boy, I had the care of our first span of work-horses. Their names were Nob and Nell. Nob was very intelligent, and even affectionate, and could learn almost anything. Nell was entirely different, balky and stubborn, though we managed to teach her a good many circus tricks; but she never seemed to like to play with us in anything like an affectionate way as Nob did. We turned them out one day into the pasture, and an Indian, hiding in the brush that had sprung up after the grass-fires had been put out, managed to catch Nob, tied a rope to her jaw for a bridle, rode her to Green Bay, seventy-five or a hundred miles away, and tried to sell her for fifteen dollars. All our hearts were sore, as if one of the family had been lost. We hunted everywhere, and could not at first imagine what had

become of her. We discovered her track where the fence was broken down, and following it for a few miles, made sure the track was Nob's; and a neighbor told us he had seen an Indian riding fast through the woods on a horse that looked like Nob. But we could find no further trace of her, until a month or two after she was lost and we had given up hope of ever seeing her again. Then we learned that she had been taken from an Indian by a farmer at Green Bay, because he saw that she had been shod and had worked in harness. So when the Indian tried to sell her the farmer said, “You are a thief. That is a white man's horse. You stole her."

“No,” said the Indian, “I brought her from Prairie du Chien, and she has always been mine.

The man, pointing to her feet and the marks of the harness, said, “You are lying. I will take that horse away from you and put her in my pasture, and if you come near it I will set the dogs on you.”

Then he advertised her. One of our neighbors happened to see the advertisement and brought us the glad news, and great was our rejoicing when father brought her home. That Indian must have treated her with terrible cruelty, for when I was riding her through the pasture several years afterward, looking for another horse that we wanted to catch, as we approached the place where she had been captured, she stood stock-still, gazing through the bushes, fearing the Indian might still be hiding there ready to spring; and so excited that she trembled, and her heart-beats were so loud that I could hear them distinctly when I was sitting on her back, boomp, boomp, boomp, like the drumming of a partridge. So vividly had she remembered her terrible experiences.

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY

BY FRANCIS MILES FINCH

By the flow of the inland river,

Whence the fleets of iron have fled,
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,
Asleep are the ranks of the dead,
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day, -
Under the one, the Blue;

Under the other, the Gray.

These in the robings of glory,

Those in the gloom of defeat,
All with the battle-blood gory,
In the dusk of eternity meet,
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day, --
Under the laurel, the Blue;

Under the willow, the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours

The desolate mourners go,
Lovingly laden with flowers
Alike for the friend and the foe,
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day,
Under the roses, the Blue;

Under the lilies, the Gray.

So with an equal splendor

The morning sun-rays fall,
With a touch, impartially tender,
On the blossoms blooming for all,
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day,
Broidered with gold, the Blue;

Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the Summer calleth,

On forest and field of grain
With an equal murmur falleth
The cooling drip of the rain,
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day, ----
Wet with the rain, the Blue;

Wet with the rain, the Gray.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding,

The generous deed was done;
In the storm of the years that are fading,
No braver battle was won.
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day, --
Under the blossoms, the Blue,

Under the garlands, the Gray.

No more shall the war-cry sever,

Or the winding river be red;
They banish our anger forever
When they laurel the graves of our dead!
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day,
Love and tears for the Blue,

Tears and love for the Gray.

A DAKOTA BLIZZARD

THE CONTRIBUTORS' CLUB

As the time for blizzards comes round again, I propose to invite the Club to meet at our camp in Rosebud Agency, southern Dakota. To prepare the minds of the members, let me recall our experience of last January. We knew before we got out of bed, in this little government schoolhouse, that the most awful storm we had ever witnessed was imminent. Lilia drew the curtain back from the window by the bed, to see if it were time to get up, and her exclamation brought me to the window at once. The sky was inky. In a few minutes, the storm began, and in half an hour it was at its height.

Lilia ventured a few yards out of the front door at its beginning, and was near not getting back. The wind struck her with such violence as to bring her head down to a level with her knees, and take away her breath. She said that she was near falling on her face, and she knew that if she fell she would not get up again. She got to the house, bent at the angle into which the wind had forced her.

The storm raged, without one moment's abatement or lull, during the whole day and far into the night, when we fell asleep. At first the little frame building creaked and shivered like a ship at sea, and we wondered how anything constructed by the hand of man could stand against that wind. After the first half hour,

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