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Page 186 text:
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Hetty experienced the same revolution of feeling of awakening from an unpleasant dream. Her hands Hew to her straying hair, thence to her pocket, thence to her face, and with a few deft circular motions her toilet was completed. The imprisoning sage leaped back into oblivion. Here was the west, the land of romance, here was a man, here were new worlds to conquer. However, the individual appearing before her at this juncture was hardly a susceptible victim of her feminine charms. Tall, emaciated, with the eyes of a strayed lamb, the whiskers of a Tripolitan pirate, over his attire let us draw a veil.
“Be you th’ schoolmarm thet’s goin’ to teach over at Crimson Gulch?”
“Oh yes, and have you come to take me?”
“Is it very far?”
"Tolablc, sixty-five mile.”
“Oh, then we must hurry—my trunks are over here.”
She watched him mutely while he put the trunks into the antiquated vehicle, vainly trying to think of a fit topic for conversation.
“This is an awfully lovely country, isn’t it. do many people leave here?”
“Yup, feller left last week.”
"Oh, poor fellow, and was he homesick?”
“Nope, went busted, too much expense fer string.”
“Yup, to keep his hat on, turrublc windy country.”
How absurd that a man should go bankrupt for such a reason. Still—but it was too ridiculous. He must have misunderstood her. She would try again.
“These horses are rather temperamental aren’t they?”
“Why—Why—Yes, yes, that much anyhow.”
“Arc they very dangerous, do they run away very often ?’’
“Why, no mum, they haint very dangerous, leastways thev’s jest as many times they don’t run off as they is times they do.”
Was this his criterion of a gentle horse? How she wished at that moment that she had not left a debutante season behind her for this silly missionary adventure. She was granted little time for her blue tinted introspection, for the cowpunchcr had fastened her trunks securely, and she was obliged to mount to the swaying seat of the stage. Taking advantage of a moment when the off horse wasn’t looking he climbed quickly to the seat beside her. loosened the reins of the plunging broncos and they were off.
Episode No. 2 Written by A. Lewis '1 vlcr.
Ye gods! Would this awful sea of sage and sand never have an end? For hours (surely there was something wrong with her watch, for it said it was only ten o’clock)—for an interminable, vacant, aching age. she had sat cramped up there on that hard, jolting seat. Every minute she had to catch desperately at the scat, the driver’s arm or even the reins in order to keep from being thrown off the stage boddy.
Page 185 text:
S ri wa i
lighting and heating will be installed. As a rule bright colors will be in the north rooms and darker colors in the south rooms. The furniture will be sturdy and substantial. Satisfying plainness is less tiring than elaborate attempts at beauty. Prints of really fine work will be preferred to paintings bv inferior artists. One motto on the wall will he good, but trinkets that only catch dust will be absolutely eliminated. A fire place, and shelves of books are needed for a home.
The lawn will be adjoined with tree bordered paths, and will afford a long unbroken view toward the highway. Tops of other houses will show against their groves. Green fields will surround the house, and woodlands, and streams that wander among the grassy banks,—streams whose waters, splashing over the smooth round pebbles, arc ever clear.
The towers, domes, and minarets of my fairy palace allure me no longer. Their bright mosaics, glistening fountains, graceful ebony columns, and silver lattice work, for me, have lost their charm. For they arc soulless things. I never want to sit in their chilly, silent, tenantless halls. I never want to tread their cold hard stones. I do not want a mansion, however stately, built of lifeless crystal and heartless bronze.
Give me a house that has association with life, where every nook and corner is dear. Let the dwelling be far from hurry, strife, and battle’s fierce contention. To the wanderer within the gates of abode let sorrow and disappointment be forgotten. To the passing stranger may happiness and childhood’s pleasures be once more recalled, so that even he will say,—“The man who lives here cannot he other than wise and good, for this is his home.” Stephen A. Deurisch.
Fpisodc No. 1 Written by G. Talbot Hunt It was Autumn, it was Wyoming and the pale of the eastern sky was warming into a glittering tapestry of rose and gold when Betty West, most irresistible of Vassar’s graduates, swung stiffly down from the step of a Pullman, and stood looking dazedly about her. Twin thumps made by the unceremonious deposition of her trunks in the sand, the whoop of the brakey, the thunder of the train, finally losing itself in the hum of telegraph wires, and she was alone.
The place was certainly no embellishment of her premonitions. Indeed it seemed but to justify her worst fears. All about her stretched a desolate sea of sage, fading into haze and semi-darkness, just purpling in the increasing light of the crisp September dawn. Away to the left stretched a long low line of foot-hills, relieving somewhat the intolerable monotony of this particular corner of the Great American Desert. To her right, seeming to increase rather than relieve her exquisite loneliness stood or rather crouched a low sinister looking little building to which she immediately attached the telegraph office, and from behind, which there projected the hind wheels of some description of vehicle.
“Whoa thar’ Buck, thar’ haint nuthin’ gwinc tu hurt yer, use a little reason an’ decency, can’t yer.”
Page 187 text:
by the wild caprices of the horses which her companion was managing with a sort of grim pleasure. Up to this time she had not tried to think, or even talk—both she and the cowpunchcr were too much occupied in other ways. But it now occurred to her that she had not seen a soul out here in this almost trackless waste, except this f|iecimen by her side. Someway, even missionary work in the wild west didn’t seem very attractive unless there were people to missionaryi .e. This question about the population of her future field of labor worried her. She even ventured to ask, “Mow many were in attendance at the Crimson (rulch School?”
“Wal now, you know we have ter keep a school agoin’ whether thar’s any—(gol-dang yer hide, jes’ you try shyin’ at nurher one un them thar sticks!)—or not. But a purty lass such as ye ought ter have a whole room full.”
She laughed—rather hysterically.
No one in that country can tell why, but everyone knows that at that moment those wooly bronchos began to run and gallop wildly on over that roughened road, dragging behind them the swaying stage with its two helpless occupants. Betty was wild with terror. She knew it was but a matter of a few moments when she could be forced to lose her hold and be flung off the pitching vehicle. In her delirium it seemed as if her mind’s eye were fixed on a bright, flaming red spot in the distance surrounded by a dusty halo, swaying to and fro,—and coming nearer, near . . .
A sudden, side lurch and she was hurled off that mad stage. And in that one moment to keen perception that always precedes a blow of the horrible, she saw that galloping by the side of the coach was a man—in a red shirt! . . . Then all
She opened her eyes; a quiver of pain ran thru her body; she was aware of some one pouring a lot of sharp, stingy stuff down her throat. Her head was pillowed on crimson flannel, supported by a strong arm. Bending close over her was the face of a man such as she had never seen, but read about all her life—strong, kind, handsome. How she worshipped the West! She murmured something about Crimson (Julch School.
“Yes,” he said, ‘Tvc been thinkin’ fer a long time a goin' to school.”
She smiled just a wee, faint, satisfied smile. And never was there a woman more glad that she was mistress of the noble art of feigned unconsciousness.
Written by Maie Osborne
“What would have become of me if you had not happened along,” sighed Betty as she slowly opened her eyes.
“It was rather dangerous, wasn’t it?” he said pleasantly as he helped her into the coach.
“Waal, that was a mighty narrow escape. Bob!” said the driver as he whipped up his horses and started off.
Now it’s always just as affairs are growing interesting, that things like this happen. Here, she had seen a very handsome young man and was just about to introduce
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