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Stk* &M° n SZriïwne.
RECOLLECTION. As wlicii a jilnj et-, weary of the «lay, Takes up his instrument and plays along 1 . First aimlessly, until unto some song, Heard long ago, his lingers find tlieir way— The old tune bringing memories which lay Deep buried in the past, once glad uud strong— He feels again those joys around him throng, And weeps erewhile to think they cannot stay; Bo X, a-wcury with the passing hours. In musing fell upon tho name of one, Now dead and gone, who was ouec dear to me, And recollections, sweet as summer showers, Came back, swift as the first,' faint gleams that run At dawn across a great gray waste of sea. —William llartlett Tyler in Boston Transcript. KENYON'S TENSION. Wo had it rough, Molly und I. lor five years. We were New Englanders, both of us; but f had come west years before when I wasn't much more thanuboy. to get rid of the lung fevers I nsetl to have every Bpring sure, anil maybe the fall between thrown in. I had nothing but my two hands to start with; but us soon as I'd made a beginning—a small one, of course —I went back for Molly. And then, as I said, for five years we had it rough. In the first place, we were burned out in the town and m ver saved a thing but the clothes w* stood in and my team. Then we started again out on the edge of everything, where land was cheap, and it looked as if hard work might count for something. That time the Indians ran us off. Never saw an Indian!' Well, sir, you never cunt to. I don't want to be hard on anything the Lord saw fit to make. I suppose lie knows what they are made for—or what he meant them for—I know there's a good deal of talk lately about their wrongs. They've had 'em, sure enough; may he I don't sec things all round as 1 ought to. They say all general rules lienr hard on particular cases. I'm one of the particular .eases, perhaps. Anyhow, they killed one of tlio children there—the girl, 5 years old; shot her right in full sight of the cabin, and Molly hasn't got over it till this day. I picked up a few head of cattle cheap that fall, and for a year we lived in a wagon, camping and driving our cattle across the ranges. You don't know what that life means for a woman, take it month in und month out. Cooking over /a camp fire, and not much of anything to cook, anyhow; clothes wet half the time; never warm in winter nor cool in sum* mer, and never clean. That year the boy died—snakebit. We were so far from a settlement that we couldn't get a doctor, and we burled him ourselves. We got into a cabin In the fall. Four of us, each one poorer than the others, took a section of government land. We had our teams and onr health, and we were down to bed rock; not nmch of any thing to lose anil everything to gain. A man will work under such circumstances, you'll find. We built in the middle of the adjoining corners of our quarters, and so had a little settlement of our own. We did it for the sake of the women, for it made an almighty sight of travel for ns to get over In the course of the day. They were all Now England women, slen der and spare, but solid grit clear through. Plymouth Rock is pretty good stock. Never u whimper nor a complaint out of one of them, though there wasn't a sec ond frock in the crowd; and if there was alw'ays corn bread and coffee enough for two in any of the shanties it wasn't in ours. After awhile, though, we had game enough—quail and prairie chickens. Prai rie chickens! I wouldn't be hired to touch one now. i remember one day along to ward spring when Molly struck. Wo had had quail and prairie chicken, prairie chicken and quail, three times a day ever Bince I could remember, it seemed to roe. She put her fork down and pushed her plate away and just quoted ont of the Bible: "Not one day, nor two days, nor flvo days, neither teu days nor twenty days, but even until it come out at your nostrils and lie loathsome unto you." Molly knew the Bible. It really ltcgan to look ns if we had touched lKittom. That next spring we got our crops lit—corn laid by, rain and 8Uit8hine anti hot weather all just right; and now and then we would hear a laugh from the houses. But the day the grasshoppers came there was mighty little laughing done. Clayton came in where I was taking my noon smoke and kind of dropped down iii a chair by the door, us if he couldn't got any farther. "Mountaineers!" he said, with a kind of gasp. "What?" 1 said, not knowing but it was uuother kind of Indian. "Grasshoppers!" It seems lie had been thero before. I ran out, and sure enough t hero they were, coming up against the sun like a low kind of cloud. And in a minute or two it wtis like being out in a live hail storm. We tried to fight them with fire and hot water, but wo gave it up in au hour. All «lay we sat and listened to that horrible cracking ami crannehing, and when they got through it looked as if a fire ha«l gone over us. Not a green tiling left, and tin* corn stalks gnawed down to stumps. We held a council of war. The end of it was that we drove onr stork into (lie town the next day, thirty miles, and sold it. It didn't make ns rich, but at least we got the price of tho hides. Then thveo of us were tu werk in tho coal shippings, and Jim Clayton went back to stay witli tho women. He find smashed his shoul der that, summer and was of no mortal •use with shovel and pick. Wo were to keep them in supplies, and it looked ns if, after nil, things might have been worse. And they got worso before a great while. The coal company petered ont just as the real cohl weather set in. We took back a big load of coal; it was tlie only pay wo ever got for our last fortnight's work, and called nuotlier council. Along in November late—about the time when they were keeping Thanksgiving on the side where they know wbat Thanks giving means—we started on a buffalo hunt. There was enough to eat, such as it was. for a month in the cabins, and fuel enough to keep them warm: and by that time we thought work might begin again. Anyway, we'd have our meat for the rest of the winter. Well, it's no use to go over that. It wasn't a pleasant trip. 'Vo weren tout for the fun ot killing. We camped out at night, und rode and shot and dressed game by «lay, ami «lid not starve nor quite freeze to death; ai^ we got back again on to the plains along in December. 1 wat ted to push through and get home, but (lie Jmrses were played out; and ad the next «lay, after we struck tlie level, we jn>! crawled along. We im« l not heard n word since we started, and I was pretty anxious—Molly was not welt when I left I. er: hut there was no choice about it, I had to go; Hie women were with lier, and t here was a doctor in Die town, and (.'lay ton had a good liorse, and we had to do about that as we had done about every thing else—lake our chances. I shan't forget that day. Along in tlio middle of the morning a norther began to blow. It did not snow, although the sky thickened up with gray, woolly looking clouds, low down and threatening. You never felt a norther? A wind that goes through your iiones, that clutches your heart and stops your brain; that breaks you up body amf soul. You don't know anything about cold till you've felt one. If there is such a tiling ns a frozen hell, tlint's where these winds come from. It isn't pure cold, it's ghost cold, and all the infernal regions let loose, yelling and thundering up in tho awful emptiness over your head and round you. Love the prairies? Well, you can love them a good deal better on paper than anywhere else. But there's an awful fas cination about them, somehow. It's like the sea. A man that's got liis living out of them for ten years is fit for nothing else in God's world. He can't get away. He's spoiled for everything else under heaven. He's got to have the sky and a chance to breathe. It's about all there is to get, better than lie can have anywhere else; but it's a sure fact that so much he's got to have whatever else gets left. It's like a poem, may be—"1 ain't much on rhyme" myself—driving across them in warm weather; horses fresh and well fed, witli a big tent and spring cots for camping and a supply wagon with every thing you can think of bnt ice, and may be that; all the world a-ripple with summer green: like tlio south wind surging like a warm ocean and the sky blue and soft and arching away up to the great white throne. That's one thing. To go trailing along, horses dead heat and half starved, pulling a big wagon through sloughs up to the axles or over frozen ruts that wring every bolt in the concern and every bone in your body, while mile after mile of dead grass stretching out to the edge of the world, with buzzards swinging up out of nowhere, more like something infernal than any de cent living thing; with coyotes yelping and crying all night—that's another thing, and the kind that doesn't get talked about much. Perhaps you don't remember that item in last winter's newspapers—a half dozen lines or so—two families frozen in a Texas norther, horses, clogs and all. just as they stood. Thai, night we went iuto camp ten miles from home. There was a ravine and plenty of brush, and the horses were ready to drop in their tracks, and that last ten miles was one of the tilings that couldn't be done. So we got our fires made mid our horses fed and sheltered as well as we could, :m«l put some heart into ourselves with buffalo steak and hot cof fee, and the rest of them packed them selves into tlio wagon. Some one had to stand guard and keep the fires going, and I took tlio contract. It wasn't a dark night. There was a goodish bit of a moon behind tho eloucls, and it made u gray kiml of light over every thing. We were at tlic bottom of a dry canyon that, ran east and west, and the wind did not reach us. It screeched anil screamed over our heads, and through it all there was a kind of moaning roar, as if we were at the bottom of a tide as deep ns tho stars arc high. I got to thinking about old times away back, of one Sun tiny night just liefere we were married. I lind gone east a -littlo sooner t han we ex pected, and had to wait for her t hiugs to be finished. We went, to church that night. A keen, crisp, still night it was, when the sleigh runners siiueaked on the snow and the moonlight traeeil the shad ows of the elm on the white ground us if they hail been put in black drawing. Tlic church was warm ami bright and they liadn't taken down the Christmas greens yet, so the air was full of the smell of them —that spicy, haunting smell, that sterns as if it came somehow from u world before tilte. Ic was years since I had smelled it, and I sat ami listened to the music ami looked at ilie people, with their comfortable clothing and faces that were cheerful, not worn and wrinkled with care and weather. Molly was an awfully pretty girl in those days; all pink and white like an apple blossom, somehow. Ami fighting to keep awake out there in the heart of a Kansas prairie, 1 got to thinking about lier as she was then and how she had changed. Skin the color of tanned leather now, and that wild, hungry look in her blue eyes, as it t hey were always staring into t lie «lark for something that frightened her. And both her eliildreu dead, and not even a spray of tlie pine she loved so, nor a breath of music; nothing but a dirt floor ami log walls that ili«l nil that was expected of them if they kept the weather out. Somebody hailed over the ton of the bliiH'. "What camp's that?" "Kenyon and mates." "I 'lowed it was"—scrambling down the sûtes «>f the gulch on Ids sure footed mule—"you, Kenyon? News for you. A kid up to your ranch, ten days old All hands doing well yesterday morning." The rest roused themselves, sleepily. He had got oil the trail, and seeing our smoke had struck for it. We knew and ho knew that the chances were that it saved liis life; hut lie swallowed. Ills cof fee nud smoked his pipe and turned in with tlic rest, as if getting lost in a norther was one of the things that hap pened, of course, to every man. Then l sat and thought a while, and filially I rout ed out Madison. "You take my turn," I said to him; "I'm going home." "Not a brute that will travel." "I'll do my own traveling—on foot." "You'll pass in your checks liefore morning." "No,'the wind is at my back: no fords; I'll keep going:'' and I went Went: half running, with the wind driving me on fill I "-as ready to drop. Once I fell and lay there with the wind dragging and tearing at me till I began to grow sleepy, nud then I had to get up and go ahead again. Perhaps you never tried crossing a prairie at night without a trail to follow. It's a curions tiling, one I cannot account for; one that makes you feel as if your body and all your senses were of no more account than a spent cartridge. It hap pened to me that night, space and time seemed to get ail mixed up together all at once racing along; it seemed to me that I had been keeping up that sort of thing for hours. I fete so adrift somehow—so hor ribly lost—as if 1 had slipped out of my self and was out in space without a land mark to measure anything by. I expect you'll have to try it yourself to know what I mean. I had no watch; there was no way of knowing how much time liad gone. Of all tlie devils that can enter into a man uncertainty is the worst. Every sort of a fancy came into my head. Perhaps I did not know the route as well as Iliad thought. Perhaps I had even passed the cabins nud was going away from them with every step. I ought to have reached them in three hours at the utmost. It seemed to me that I had been hurling along for twice three hours. Once I tried madly to fight back into the wind. It was hopeless, worse than use less. I should drop with exhaustion In a few minutes, and I must keep going. And then 1 found burned grass under my feet. There had licen a fire over the prairie. The ground was not cold yet. A new dread got bold of me. Who knew where it liad gone or what had stood in its track? I ran along screaming something —praying or swearing—quite mad, I think, for a little, till I fell again, and the jar brought me to my senses. I had gone over the edge of an old buf falo run scooped deep by tlie rush of sum mer rains. I lay still for a little while. 1 must have gone to sleep, or perhaps I fainted away. Anyway, when 1 came tc myself again the world was as still as the grave. The wind hail gone down, ns it will sometimes, suddenly ami entirely. The silence was horrible. I got on my feet stiff and benumbed. In all that gray, still, ghastly space there was nothing to tell eust from west or north from Bouth. I was lost on the big range. It was still enough, bnt tlie cold was dangerous. I could not stop. I must move somewhere. I must make myself a purpose—a purpose to keep myself alive at least—till daylight came. I began walking; it did not matter in what direction. If only my strength held out till morning—strength to keep off that horrible drowsiness. I know I stumbled heavily along. I was thinking about Molly and her baby; it all seemed like a dull dretuii. And then bells began to ring; deep and soft and far off. I stopped in my tracks to listen. It was the sound of bells, cer tain, full and sweet; and I turned and went blindly on, following the sound as a hound might follow a scent. All at once I saw' a light. It wasn't a star; there were no stars. And nobody lived on the big range, unless some cannier was traveling about, and travelers don't 'travel in the teeth of a norther. And this light swung and waved, went out entirely for a second or two and then burned up again. And near or far I could not tell, only it was a light and it moved, and I followed it. And I could hear the liells all the time. Then, all at once, another one of Molly's Bible verses (lashed into my head; some thing about a "star in the east that went before them till it came and stood over the place where the young child lay." Well, I wasn't a wise man, or I shouldn't have got in such a fix. I don't think I am an irreverent kind of a fellow, either; n man could live with Molly many years und be that. Only I was looking for u young child too, and babies—little ones—always did seem to me near enough to heaven to make that story about the star reasonable enough. Anyway, there it was, meant for mo or not, und I fol lowed it. More than once I fell, but I always feot up anil went on. I was talking to myself part of tlie time, hearing my own voice and thinking it was some one clse's. I lost my sense of time again, but kept on doggedly: ami then, suddenly, the light Hushed brighter, whirled about in a wild sort of a way, and went out entirely. 1 gave a shout anil ran forward. I thought. 1 should die if I lost it. And there I was stamli.ig on a wide trail, with a sort of square dark shape standiug up in the dimness before me. with light and voices coming out of the chinks, and somehow, there was the door, and my Land on tlio latch, anil in another second —oh! it was Molly—Molly with u lamp ill lier hand, bending over a feeding box Diaile into a eratlle, with a great armful of liay anil i white sheepskin for a cover, *in f l Madison's wife kneeling on one sido mid Clayton's wife on the other, and be yond, with the lights flashing in their gri nt. wandering, shining eyes, a pair of astonished horses. And then there came a piping cry from tlie feeding trough, and 1 knew I had fourni the baby. Burned out? Yes, sir. That was tlic last tiling; but they hail liad warning be fore the fire came down on them. Jim Clayton had taken tbe women anil struck across for the big road and they took the first shelter they came to, a stable that had been built in tlic days when all tlie California supplies went overland by mule traiu. When the wind fell he took the lantern and tried to find a cabin that used to stand somewhere near, anil I hail oeen following him for half an hour. Oh yes, I'm well fixed now; three thous and head of cattle out on the Gunnison. Anil Molly spends her summers back home, and site anil the babies bring back enough croup and catarrh auil bronchitis sore throat to Inst them half the next winter.—New York Independent. Out «*f » Broiled Chicken. The Hotel KnatcrskiU grew out of a broiled chicken. George Harding, tho wealthy Philadelphia patent lawver, while in the Catskills years ago with au invalid daughter, desired a broiled chicken for her. He couldn't get it. He vowed on the spot that he would build a hotel where I î? l ?, llod thicken anil every other known delicacy could be had. lie has spent ud I ward of $1.000.000 in keeping his pledge I 1 I a >§ s .■■Ml 3 «ST? r* C ÿ, r b §i? i S s- Q. ri S Ü .. h r M p3 r 1 s — *1 Jfla ft Ö ° o ^ « 2 < g. 3 5'*5 ~ © » 3 2. 9-3 !* 5 2. p . js: 7 T < n ^ P 7 COPYRIGHTED. FOB SALE! FIFTY HEAD Norman-Percheron Stallions, *^-270 ;iV z* r. Grades from Imported Sires and good American Mares, ranging from 2 to 5 yeat -ÄJ.SO, 200 Q-ZBUOXaSTG-S. t The stock can be seen at our ranch on Blacktail Deer Creek, Beaverhead C» Postoffice address, DILLON, MONTANA. POINDEXTER & ORrI SO TO THE WILLIAMSON HOUSE IF YOU WANT GOOD ACCOMMODATIONS, AND A GOOD TABLE. Good Cigars and Cigarettes ALWAYS ON HAND. GXVS MS A CALL. WM. L. WILLIAMSON, Proprietor. nro. xocoszsn, CONTRACTOR AND BUILDER Plans, Estimates and Specifications Given on Application. Shop: Lower Montana Street, Dillon. BRICK, BRICK, BRICK I Dillon Steam Press Brick Tant. M. J, McCL'NE, Proprietor and Contractor FOR AI.L kinds of Mason Work. ESTIMATES GIVEN For making and laying brick, through out the county. Desert Land Final Proof-Notice for Pub lleatlon. t . s. I .and office, Helena, Mont., Oct. S, 1SS7. Notice u hereby Riven that Thomas \V. Poindex 5 £.°* P ,lll,n .'. Beaverhead countv, Montana, has him! "|".V CC of "? u>nt,on to make prool on his desert " nu "' her for the northeast quarter northeast quarter sec. 3.;, northwest quarter, north west quarter northeast quarter, south half north east quarter; north half southwest quarter so, Uh ^ISt crvithume» ........_______ « " .. * »uuin S«iS äü 3 ä m. ■ X.m,Xv !w7; ,na * °" Mond " y ' thc -«* of lit names the following witnesses to nrove Hi.. C onjrer and W iiliam C. «Irr. all of Dillon. Mont' ' • Langhorne, Register. KOTBZi OAXUDg, "Viola, Soi HIOHOLIA, LE MHI COU NTY, Pjl Mn. Mary MoBea, Proprietraa ] Good accommodation* and the belt the 1 «•ord* on tho table. $adge ($*rds. Regular meetings of Steetimas Post, Xo. J A. It., are held on thc second Tuesday ' month at tlie Post Rooms. Comrades in good standing are cordiallvii to attend. _ „ , . OTIIO KI.EMM, PostcJ T. M. O'Connoh, Adjutant. A XCIKNT ORDER OF I L A T WORKMEN. Dillon Lodge, No. 7, A.O.U.] meet* the first and thirdTaeadaj of each month, at 8 o'clock, in/ HbU on Montana street Sojourning br.— food standing, are_cordially invited to tUnd ' YV. P. I.AYXK,'V.l L H. Stkiwoham, Recorder. KNIGHTS OF LABOR n ELLON ASSEMBLY NO. 3751. zf neets at Dart's Hail tits second sad H 0 1 ever? month, at T 3 » o. m. X. O. O. V. DANNACK LODGE, kl meets every Wednesday ««al at its Hall in Glendale. Sojoi brethren, in g< 1 aood standing, a sc cordially ianb beet a 'tond. - W. Y. FISHER, M . R- T. Noyes, Secretary. OCCIDENT LODGE, No. 8 ,1 I w meets in convocation every 1 Ait visiting ted to attend. A. S. RIKE.C. Dak. L. Kemi-uk, K. ot R. and S. C. Hikschmss. H. J. Bi-hleic.ii, Rec, Secy. I. O. O. F. Occidental Encampment, N'o. •/, »«a' 1 * •■'Vt iuviiuii XUriCUIlljJlilClll, •> ' *• •/» , and 3d Saturday niy ats of each nmnth a ~ Hall, in Glendale. All sojourninir good standing are invited to attend. ALBERT Me BOX Ah A'-* W. T. Cook, Scribe. ÄOTICK TO SETTLE IT. All Persons indebted to Sei wav Br signet-s of Kirkpatrick Brother that ïfsl ...... a*..: 1 I ... Mgnec-s ot Kirkpatrick Brothers, arc m-*»- . , ■ that if they fail to settle on or before W-'-V, of September with either.!. R. Holden t-r dersigned, suit will be brought agasnst 38-td. ShMVA' Bro»..A^2 SAIliV MAIL, PASSENGEB EXPRESS LINE. —between DILLON, ARGENTA a Leaves Dillon. Leaves Bann \C K For Freight or P i-s-'ge • !>!' rific Express Ajrt nt. at It. It. I 1 L. Graves, 1*; cifi Kxin-i-ä-s A-« — ■ ■ — —n vi/m » wvniims -— ■ evening in the Castle Hall, ton*I Hannack and Montana streets. A pollo lodge, w meets every Monday crews] _r- it« Hall on the comer of MonawJ Bannack streets. Sojourning m Stood standing, are cordially invited to alte». I JOl l X WEIGIITM-'X. pr£ ' r ' Comfort, Safety, m