ing the narrow barrier, on every side seizing the dry reeds and cane, and gathering strength as they draw closer the red circle of their forces; going up at last in one triumphant flash of flames, dying themselves on the last conquered spot, and leaving the eye free amid the sudden gloom, to gaze once more on the far distant fires, miles away, skirting the farthest verge of the horizon like day's first burst of light.

And then, once more, have I seen them after the fire had swept them leaving them verdureless and black-so black as to weary and pain the eye almost as did their white dress in winter.

But all these changes, and more which I have seen, are but so many different phases of the same scene, no one of them, or all of them describe it; it would be the prairie without them. Their vastness, their solitude, the soberness which they inspire-and in this again they resemble the ocean, for who ever saw one new to the scene laugh on the sea-shore? A thousand minor features make up the picture which would tire in description, and yet without them all description fails to be correct. I will name but two of them; the surface of the ground and its covering. The first is best described by the term rolling hillocks or ridges, varying from two to ten yards in height, irregular, with round basins or long troughs between them, presenting a sky line closely resembling the ocean when a strong wind has suddenly changed its course, breaking the continuity of the swells. And the surface so described is covered over, everywhere without a spot of naked earth, with grass, and much of it of great growth; grass covering acre after acre, mile after mile, with one unvaried interminable green. This grass is from two feet to two yards in height, varying with the soil and species. This refers to the wild prairie away from the cultivated farms. You will perceive at once the difficulty of keeping a straight course across the prairies. I have been "lost"

more

times in one year on the prairies, than in twenty spent in the woods of Western New York when in their wildest state. Not two weeks since I spent an hour on the prairies within half a mile of home waiting for the stars to come out to guide me. Some time ago a Gerinan woman came to my place long before the sun was up asking help, or rather the help of Phil. Her little boy

had wandered and was lost. You know what being lost in the woods means, but for a child, that is nothing, is safety itself, when compared with being lost on the prairies. Two within my knowledge, within as many years, have wandered; one fell a prey to the wolves, and one was never heard of more. You will not wonder at this when you reflect on the description I have given and shall give you. A child of five years old can see over the grass only occasionally, and then with no extensive view. There are no trees to guide, no fences to restrain their steps, but foot-paths enough to mislead them, trails made by Indian or buffalo, leading from one distant ford or woodland to another. And then the sparse settlement makes every course but the right one fatal. These present so many dangers as to render the night and wolf superfluous perils. I strove in vain to explain to the woman that my dog was not a blood-hound but a bird-dog-that he would follow no human footsteps but my own, that I feared he could not be made to follow her boy's track. But she could not or would not believe but that Phil would follow and do anything I told him, and I almost repented having said anything to check for a moment the illusion of hope in the wretched mother's breast. You know that it was not said to save myself the trouble of going with her; I should of course have gone with her at any rate. But she had heard a great deal of my dog, and had seen him track, she told me, the little snipe and plover, whose whole foot was not so large as one of Hanka's toes; and with true womanly tact she reminded me how months before she had gone to show me where a wild turkey had crossed the prairie, and how she had seen Phil take up the sporr and follow it, recounting with earnest interest all the difficulties he had overcome; how the bird flew over the narrow brook, leaving him no track to follow; how he ran up and down the stream to search for it, and then swam over and scoured the prairie on the other side until he found the track once more. I listened with an aching heart, for I knew the difficulties far better than she could or would. I was soon ready to follow her, and on the way she told me that her little boy had been playing before the door while she went to carry their dinner to the men folks on the prairie. That when she came back he was gone; that she ran over the prairie to seek him, and called him until

the men heard her and came to her help; that before nightfall their few neighbours, men and women, joined them in the search; how the dark night came but no child; how she and her husband had wandered through its gloom, calling the boy, and making noises to scare the wild beasts from the place, and how she had left before the first light of morning to come for me. She told me all this while hurrying along at a speed which tested even a hunter's stride, fresh as I was from the night's rest. We reached her house as the first light of the morning began to spread over the premises. It was a small board building, of such size as the boards' length would make, on the very out edge of the cultivated country. The sides of the house were banked up, except the doorway, with coarse prairie turf a foot in thickness to the bottom of the small window, on the south a narrow footpath led from the door down a sloping bank to a shallow well, dug near the slough at the bottom. A wagon, plow, and a few more farming tools lay scattered round, and in the house a scanty supply of household goods. At the door lay a small pair of wooden shoes which Hanka had thrown off while at play. A small but unfenced spot was cultivated near the house, while north and east might be seen other cottages like it, scattered here and there at wide intervals, and on the south and west the limitless prairie, without a tree or shrub, far as the eye could see. But why draw a picture that will not distinguish this cottage or spot from a hundred others on the broad prairie. And now began my almost hopeless task of teaching a setter, in one lesson, the trade of the bloodhound. But of the result, I will tell you in a future letter.

I am not certain where I left off in my story, but think it was while on the way home with the woman who wanted Phil to help her to find her child.

We reached her home just as the sun was lighting up the prairie-not as he breaks on some hilly and wooded landscape-with bright spots here and there, as some tall tree or hill-side catches his light and gives glad warnings of his coming-and inuch less as he lights up some Alpine country, where on some mountain top, Nature, like a monarch, sits enthroned to receive the earliest homage of his golden beams, and thence to reflect them as her own sweet smile, to the valleys beneath her feet. Not so does

the day break on the prairies; but with a certain steady increase of light, with no sudden burst of brightness as the sun rises above the low horizon. And so it was now. The sun had just risen, and was still so low that people passed between my sight and him, and for an instant hid his red ball. People hastening by foot-paths from their various homes to look one day more for the lost boy.

My plans were soon laid. I threw aside my hunting coat, set up my gun, and taking some of the boy's clothing, tried to make Phil understand what I wished him to do. He would smell of them because I told him, but without interest or intelligence, and would then turn and look at the gun as if expecting me to take it up again. I left it, however, and called him out of the house. I was glad to see him smell of the small wooden shoes lying by the door, though this he did of course.

The boy had now been gone some eighteen hours and no scent of his footsteps could be hoped for near the house, even if Phil could be made to know that I wanted him to follow them. They had searched the day before the grounds around the house, and the foot-paths leading to the neighbors. I determined, therefore, at once to strike off into the prairie. Phil followed me, looking wistfully back at times, at the house where I had left my gun. We had left the house a mile or more, when calling Phil, I tried once more to make him understand my object. He would smell of the little sock which I had brought with me, look wistfully in my face, as if to search out my meaning. He would then start off in one direction, looking back to see if I approved of that. I would call him back and make him again sinell the child's sock, but it seemed useless; he would be off again another way, looking back to see if that was right, and being called back again, looked perplexed and discouraged, and walked slowly by my side. The neighbors meanwhile scattered far and near in the almost hopeless searchhopeless, for the boy might have wandered many miles, and we knew that we might pass within a dozen yards of him in the tall prairie grass, without knowing he was there. But the poor mother clung to me and Phil, with a sinking heart, however, for she could not but observe that he was not searching for her lost treasure. And thus we wandered on hour after weary hour. Time after time I endeavored to make Phil understand

me, but in vain. Once he ran to me, looking bright and glad, and when I showed him the boy's stocking he eagerly took it in his mouth and walked proudly, with head erect, as if to say "now I understand you want me to carry it." In spite of self-control, my face must have betrayed my disappointment, for be dropped his head and tail, and slowly brought me back the sock, which I took, but at the same time caressed him and walked slowly on. At length he stops again, snuffs the ground, looks pleased, hurries this way and that to catch a warmer scent, looks up with bright eyes at me, then runs slowly, as nosing the ground. We follow him, and on my part for the first time with hope, it might be he had at last caught my meaning. But then again he might be following the track of game, and this was the most natural supposition. But no, he is scenting up a tall weed, too high for a bird to touch; it cannot be deer, for their sharp hoofs would have left a print on the sod which would not escape my eye; nor wolf, for Phil has not the angry look, the glaring eye, and lips drawn up to show his white tusks ready for his foe, features which the wolf's scent always gives him. But on he goes, scenting every tuft of grass, or now unheeded prairie flower, pausing at some, and snuffing a long slow breath, with eyes half-closed lest light should interfere with the one sense on which he relies. The mother is close by me, asking every moment "Is he tracking Hanka? will he find Hanka?" I dare not say yes, for I am not certain, but I have never seen him move so after any kind of game, and I know his varied movements when pursuing each. But the track is not warm, whatever made it, for he stops, now turns round and stops again, then takes a wider circle and comes round to the same spot again; "he is at fault." He makes another effort on a wider circle still, and is yet at fault. He now gives one sharp cry of angry vexation, and then turns suddenly and retraces his own footsteps, following at a fast run his back track, several hundred yards. Stops, scents the ground, catches the trail and follows over the track, once more, cautious and slowly, to within a few rods of first fault-and then turns off with cheerful steps. He has recovered the trail and runs briskly on, but soon checks himself and turns half round, as if on second thought he would examine a weed he had just passed. I examined it too, and there, on the dry

rough stem of the resin-weed, hung a few shreds of blue cotton, The mother saw me looking at them and ran forward and seized the precious relic, "it was Hanka's, I knew it was Hanka's!" I thought so too, for the color is such as no Yankee has yet imitated with success. But Phil has breathed on it and she has handled it, and I cannot judge how long it has hung there. But she is calling her friends to come in. In the meanwhile Phil has got the start of us and we hurry on to overtake hin, but cautiously avoid the track he follows, lest he might be at fault again and have to retrace his steps.

*

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My last letter left me with the mother of the lost boy and Phil striving to trace the boy's footsteps through the tall grass of the prairie. Reflect, dear, on the situation of the boy's mother-of the boy. How intently she watched Phil's movements, but happily without the fear which troubled me, who could understand his difficulties far better than she could. But he is going steadily on now, not fast, and I have much trouble to keep the impatient mother from outstripping him, and soiling the trail. The crowd gather, one by one, after us from the prairie. Keeping them at a distance as well as might be, we follow close by Phil, watching his every movement. He's working gloriously, but on a faint trail. He understands the matter now, and has all our excitement. With his mouth open, lest the too strong draught of air through his nose should blunt the delicacy of its nerves, he tracks for hours the wanderings of that child. And now the last doubt as to the character of the track is removed, for just before us, in an old Buffalo trail, is a child's track. I hastily put my foot over it to hide it from the mother's sight, for fear her eagerness might interfere with Phil, our only hope and guide. But the effort was vain, for she noticed the movement, and, darting forward, saw another track. I stopped her before she could reach it, and while she is crying, almost screaming, "Tis Hanka's sporr, 'tis Hanka's sporr; mein kint, mein kint!" I examined with a hunter's eye and care the track. It is a child's foot-print, beautifully moulded in the soft dust of the Buffalo trail. It was made long after the sun was up, and the dew gone, as the dust was dry when the foot pressed it, for, although smooth, it has not the coherence of dust, pressed and dried afterwards. The slightest breath disturbs

it, and the slow-worm, which has made the only trail across it, has scarcely crawled ten yards beyond along the Buffalo path, which it is painfully pursuing with dull, tortuous movement. Yet it was clear that for some hours the sun had shone upon that footmark, and it might be miles must be passed before we could overtake the foot that made it, unless stayed by sleep or exhaustion. The task was not easy, for the boy had taken the Buffalo path. I cautioned the crowd to keep back at least a stone's throw, and hurried on to overtake Phil, busy in that most difficult and delicate operation, following a track over dry dust. But he was working well. Cheerful and confident, swinging his fringed tail around, with its widest sweep, dodging his head from side to side of the narrow path to catch the scent left on the green herbage at its edge, where the boy's clothes or hands had chanced to touch. Phil and his master were both excited, and the scene was enough to excite any one. There, on the wide prairie, in the bright sunshine, the deep blue sky above and the green earth beneath, bending alike to meet at the horizon. The ancient path we were treading, made long years ago by the large buffalo and the pursuing Indian, both banished now to the Far West, withering before the pale face of their common enemy. The trail now leading over the low hill tops; now down their gentle slopes to the low grounds, skirting the marsh, then rising up again. And then the game we were pursuing-not to kill but to savericher than the finest fur or proudest antler that dwell on the green deserts; for it was the dearest treasure of two human hearts, the richest gem of a prairie home. But Phil has stopped by a large gopher-mound, near the hill-top, where the grass is shortest, the mother and myself beside him. The boy has been on the hillock, doubtless, to look out for home. Vain hope! No sign of human habitation or human handiwork can be seen from here. He had turned round and round upon it, but could catch no sight of any particular object. Campbell's last man was scarcely more hopelessly alone. He had sat down to rest him, perhaps to weep; for I could see the print of his heels half way down the small earthen hillock. But

he had left; and Phil, having snuffed for many rods along the trail, in vain, now came running back, and taking a narrow circle round the hillock and recovering the track, starts off in a new direction. Fortunately, now the track leads through the green grass, and Phil fallows swiftly, so quickly as to render needless my caution to the crowd; for we have left them far behind, and none but the mother and myself keep up with Phil. He leads us down the hill to a small brook, where the boy had gone to drink. We could see where his small feet had struggled in the marsh, and where he had knelt down, both hands were printed in the soft soil. From here, the trail turned back again towards the high ground and the distanced crowd. But now Phil stops a moment, and his whole manner changes. He no more noses the ground, following the various windings of the track; but, with head erect and neck stretched out, marches straight forward, with steady gait and gaze. no longer heeds the track, for he can scent the boy where he lies hid. I noted the change at once, and knew its meaning, but dared not tell the mother. She observed it soon, and cried out that Phil had left off hunting; but in an instant recollecting to have seen him retrieve, cried out "He has found him!" "he has found mein kint!" and, rushing past us, in an instant more, I heard the boy's scream of fright, and her wild cry of joy.

He

We were soon with her, and Phil seemed almost disposed to dispute her right to the child, but joined most heartily in her exultation, leaping upon me, running to the boy, as he lay in his mother's arms, rubbing his nose on his face and hands, then racing away again to greet, with boisterous mirth, each newcomer to the group.

We were now on our way home, laughing and shouting, a joyous troop. I led the way; Phil followed me close, except at times, when he went back to look after the boy, carried in the strong men's arms, by turns, with his mother watching beside him.

I left them at the end of three miles, and struck across the prairie for my home, some five miles distant, and reached it at nightfall, tired with my day's ad

ventures.

was the morning after Helen's wedding, and as I stood in the large parlors, now so still and breathless, where only the evening before, merry words and light laughter had re-echoed, I began for the first time to realize that Helen had gone.

I threw myself on a sofa near the conservatory; the wind, laden with sweet perfume, swept over my cheek as I pulled the cushions into shape, and, assuming an easy position, prepared to indulge in a favorite amusement of mineday-dreaming.

My thoughts reverted to the distant past, and the scenes of my childhood came vividly before me.

I seemed to see my own quiet homemy gentle mother bending over her sewing, as she was wont to do from early morn to the late evening, ever cheerful, ever busy until she sickened and died.

That death-bed! How well I remembered it!

Her last fond embrace and her fast falling tears, as she lay on the lowly bed, her thin hand resting on the white counterpane, and the white curtains blowing out gently into the room, fanning her pale cheek.

Good Mrs. Evans stood by the bedside weeping bitterly and reiterating her promise to follow the directions of my mother concerning me. I only comprehended that my mother was to leave me, and clung to her hand, looking at her wonderingly.

How could I know that she was to die? I had seen her sick so many times, and knew so little what death was!

I watched her as she breathed fainter and fainter, her eyes all the while fixed on me with a loving expression that I can never forget.

"Heavenly Father," she breathed, "to thee I commit my child." Her clasp of my hand tightened, then relaxed, and all was over. Again I thought of the time when I had first entered these rooms, contrasting so strongly with the low walls and simple furniture of my cottagehome, that I was almost dazzled and knew not which to admire most, the lady dressed in silks and laces, to whom I was presented, or the elegances that surrounded her.

I was half afraid of my aunt, till she clasped me in her warm embrace, half VOL. IV.-20

smothering me in her enormous sleeves as she pressed me in her arms.

I believe she would have wept over me, but unfortunately, as she held me off to look at me, my long hair having got entangled in any number of chains which depended from her neck, my horrified expression was so far removed from anything pathetic, that she burst into a fit of laughter. I, for my part, felt more inclined to cry, as my uncle who stood by came to the rescue; at length, with the aid of scissors, I was separated from my aunt with the loss of a little of my abundant hair, and I doubt not since I have known her better, of a very pretty little speech of welcome also which she had prepared to deliver.

Good Mrs. Evans, who had brought me to Boston, was treated with every possible attention, and on parting with me the next day, as she was to return to her home, assured me that I "was in good hands, for my aunt's folks was the nicest folks that ever was."

I was soon fairly settled, and my sadness, which I had determined never to get over, feeling as if any cessation of grief denoted a lack of affection for my mother, gradually vanished before the bright smiles and merry chat of my four cousins. The two older ones having finished their education, had come out, and parties, rides and other amusements followed each other in quick succession.

Maggie, Helen and I were still schoolgirls, but yet aunt McLellan allowed us to join occasionally in rides, and to make our appearance at small social parties, which we enjoyed most heartily.

Our house was always thronged with company, and my aunt herself was the life of our parties of pleasure.

My uncle, a studious and reserved man, passed most of his time in his study, and so long as he was allowed to remain in undisturbed possession of that room, cared little how his family spent their time, if they were only happy.

So years passed on and no shadow dimmed the sunshine of that happy household till death entered.

My uncle, after a short and severe illness, died.

My aunt was inconsolable; in fact, we were all overwhelmed with grief. Death we knew must come to all, but we had never dreamed that it would come so