Little Warhorse 
picturesqueness was the grain elevator. It 
was not posing as a Greek temple or a Swiss 
chalet, but simply a strong, rough, honest, grain 
elevator. At the end of each street was a vista 
of the prairie, with its farm-houses, windmill 
pumps, and long lines of Osage-orange hedges. 
Here at least was something of interest—the 
gray-green hedges, thick, sturdy, and high, were 
dotted with their golden mock-oranges, useless 
fruit, but more welcome here than rain in a 
desert; for these balls were things of beauty, 
and swung on their long tough boughs they 
formed with the soft green leaves a color-chord 
that pleased the weary eye. 
Such a town is a place to get out of, as soon 
as possible, so thought the traveller who found 
himself laid over here for two days in late win- 
ter. He asked after the sights of the place. 
A white Muskrat stuffed in a case ‘‘down to 
the saloon”; old Baccy Bullin, who had been 
scalped by the Indians forty years ago; anda 
pipe once smoked by Kit Carson, proved un- 
attractive, so he turned toward the prairie, still 
white with snow. 
A mark among the numerous Dog tracks 
222 
