Kansas University Weekly.
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around his neck, and kissed his damp, cold forehead. We were so happy that night; I think it was the happiest time of my whole life.
Before long, father went into business, a business that I knew nothing about. The miners and the cowboys came from miles around to father's store, and then there were sounds of revelry that often lasted all night long. In my little back room, I could hear the clink of glasses, and the loud rough oaths of the men. Sometimes two or three pistol shots would ring out sharp and clear, but as father never said anything about it to me, I supposed that the men were shooting at marks—that they were human marks I did not know until later.
When winter came on, I used to go into that big, strange room, to keep warm. The men payed some attention to me at first, but when they found that I would only answer them in monosyllables, that I would not swear or say the wicked things they commanded me to, that I would shrink from them when they came near me, then they flung lemon and orange peel at me and called me "Surly Brat!"
My father tried to get me to stay in my little north room, but it was so cold in there, and I could not lie in bed all the time and all those terrible noises going on about me. Besides the darkness was so terrifying, for I could always see against the impenetrable blackness my mother's blue eyes gazing so mournfully at the bloated form of my father as he lay in the ditch that morning. I could not stand it.
One cold night, I stayed in that big room, crouching behind the stove, until almost midnight. The sounds of revelry grew louder and louder, the fun faster and more furious, and the men seemed fairly wild with hilarity, suddenly, there was a lull, everyone seemed waiting for some new sport.
A cowboy, Merry Mike, arose and staggering across the room, filled a glass with foaming liquor.
Merry Mike's eyes flashed with scorn and anger. "Come here, you blathering idiot, and drink this!"
"Come here, you brat!" he shouted. Every eye was turned upon me. I cowered down in my corner.
I shrank back in mortal terror. "Please don't! Oh, please! Please don't!" I pleaded.
"Take that, then!" cried the infuriated man with an oath, and he flung the glass straight at my head. I felt a sharp pain in my temple, but I did not care for that; I only felt sorry for my father whose poor weak son I was. My head swam, and a great, engulfing darkness was settling round me. "My poor, poor father, how mortified he must be—how mortified—" but the darkness had enveloped me.
I awoke in my little couch, to find my father beside me. There was a great, red spot just above his heart, and his face was white and drawn. His eyes were fixed upon the faded picture of the woman who was his wife and my mother.
"Father," I heard him murmur, "I have sinned against Heaven, and in Thy sight, and am not worthy—" and then, the voice grew fainter and fainter "the Father loveth the Son—loveth the Son—loveth the Son—"
Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.
ETHEL A. HICKEY.
Saved from the Blizzard.
Pete Smith insisted that he was perfectly sober when he started from the Cross-roads Farm on the afternoon of the blizzard. The horse he had hoped to borrow was too lame to use, so if he kept his appointment to meet Bill Johnson at Hardin's grocery he must walk the six miles. The air was chill and cutting and the sky looked threatening when he left the farm. Pete foresaw the snow-storm but he was a good walker and thought he could reach his destination before the storm could seriously interfere with his progress. But he had not gone more than half a mile before big flakes began to dance through the air and by the time he had made half of his journey he was in the midst of the first and the worst blizzard that passed over the Middle States that year.