rie stretching away to the west as far as we could see. There
seemed to be but few houses, and the scattering fields of corn
were stunted and dried up. It had apparently been an extremely
dry season, though the prospects for rain that night were good,
and grew better. It was hot, and a strong south wind was
blowing. Night soon began to come on, but we could find no good
camping-place. We had not passed a house for four or five miles,
nor a place where we could get water for the horses. As it grew
dark, however, it began to rain. It kept up, and increased to
such an extent that in half an hour there were pools of water
standing along the road in many places, and we decided to stop.
It was wet work taking care of the horses, but the most
discouraging thing was the report from the cook that there was no
milk with which to make griddle-cakes for supper, and as he did
not know how to make anything else, the prospect was rather
gloomy. But through the rain we finally discovered a light a
quarter of a mile away, and Ollie and I started out to find it.
Jack refused to go, on the plea that he was still lame from his
Yankton trip after milk.

[Illustration: Wet but Hopeful]

We blundered away through the rain and darkness, and after
stumbling in a dozen holes, running into a fence, and getting
tangled up in an abandoned picket-rope, at last came up to the
house. It was a little one-room board house such as the settlers
call a "shack." The door was open, and inside we could see a man
and woman and half a dozen children and a full dozen dogs. We
walked up, and when the man saw us he called "Come in!" tossed
two children on the bed in the corner, picked up their chairs,
which were home-made, and brought them to us.

"Wet, ain't it?" he exclaimed. "Rainy as the day Noah yanked
the gang-plank into the Ark. I was a-telling Martha there was a
right smart chance of a shower this afternoon. What might
you-uns' names be, and where might you be from, and where might
you be going?"

We told him all about ourselves, and he went on:

"Rainy night. Too late to help the co'n, though. Co'n's poor
this year; reckon we'll have to live on taters and hope. Tater
crop ain't no great shakes, though. Nothing much left but hope,
and dry for that. Reckon I'll go back to old Missouri in the
spring, and work in a saw-mill. No saw-mills here, 'cause there
ain't nothing to saw. Hay don't need sawing. Martha," he added,
turning