The wind from Kansas, blowing upscorch
ingly, is a fierce fever of kisses—kisses
that, like a courtesan’s, burn, blight and
disenchant.
Tho sky has darkened. Is it going to
rain—by any blessed mischance? No; tho
darkness is that of dust —dust in little,
long, wavelike currents on tho country
roads; dust vising in whirls, tho spirals of
which are shaped like waterspouts; dust
which surges up with a sullen roar, which
hangs a thick, dun pall between earth and
heaven, which makes darkness at 5 o’clock
in May, which sifts in on your pillow all
night long to tho tune of a vagrant and
accursed wind, which dries your throat,
grits between your teeth and colors your
dreams, which lies upon your garments
in the morning and shows on your hag
gard face. You rise, hat ho, dress. You
are deceived liy an abrupt, a sudden, a de
lightful lull, which lasts perhaps two or
three hours. Hut before noon it begins
all over again.
Repetition I revenge! resignation! tho
clock seems to tick.
The first is inevitable. Tho second is
Impossible. The third—they say St. Law
rence suggested a turn on the gridiron
during Ids martyrdom. Those who endure
the torture of a summer in a small western
town, when) a sprinkling cart is an un
known institution, never make a similar
demand. For tho heat is enveloping, and
they are roasted in tho most prompt, uni
form and impartial manner imaginable.—
Chicago Tribune.
Tynilnll'a Alpine Experience*.
