A "touch of the prairie," is madness incipient, and unless relief comes in some exciting diversion, or in the rush of tears, the victim will perish in the wilderness, or come wandering into the edges of civilization in a sort of driviling lunacy that may be permanent.

The writer remembers well his own experiences in Goshe's Holes, now called Goshen Park, where the goblins of the desert led him from place to place, without food or water, until he felt almost as etherial and wisplike as the most immaterial of them. Whether it was by accident or otherwise, Joe Wilde, the well known veteran of Fort Laramie, found me, and piloted me. to the safety of his home.

And I can sympathize with Ed Stemler, the Buckeye boy, who, when alone in the wilderness, would seek the highest points of land, and look as far back east as his eyes could reach, and where he would bawl his heart out with a terrible, terrifying grief, with no witnesses save the brassy, unresponsive sky. Except for the clinging clay, he would tear away through the miles of intervening space to the hills that nourished him. When the tempest of his homesickness passed and the frame shook spasmodically with subsiding sobs, he would return to the duties of the range.

By and by, the prairies began to look different, he began to make friends with the cattle he tended, the horses he rode, and other life of the plains.

Nomadic red men drifted by at intervals and he had no fear of them. Like Fiddler Campbell, he found heartease in the music of