Meadow and Mountain 



Between the ending of the ranchman's song and the 

 coming of evening dusk and dew seemed long and desolate. 

 The prairie looked brown and unbeautiful. But the outer 

 seeming much depends on the inner seeing. Night came 

 with the sky clouded and moonless. Wan and weary, the 

 stalwart son of the prairie fell asleep. At midnight chariots 

 of cloud rolled their thunder-wheels across the sky. Storm- 

 winds were unleashed and set upon the shelterless things 

 that live on the unprotected prairie. Long spikes of rain 

 gleamed like burnished steel in the lightning's glare. The 

 hammer of Thor drove them aslant into the prairie's bosom. 

 In the wildering darkness birds fluttered and screamed, with 

 rain-drenched wings. Furred things crouched low in the 

 grass. Cattle hurdled about in groups, and, bellowing pit- 

 eously, backed against the pelting rain. Hail shot like icy 

 bullets through the grass. Bluestem's garments were torn 

 to shreds. If he had ever needed Beauty, it was in such a 

 storm as this. But even with his tattered garments he fain 

 would shelter her. Then he forgot his need in remembering 

 hers. Once he thought he heard her call across the storm. 

 He felt that he must find her. He was full of fear lest Beauty 

 might be slain. Who, like himself, could give her adequate 

 protection? Then he bethought him that a greater life than 

 his was stirring in the storm. That thought filled him with 

 good cheer. Then he recalled another voice, and it was 

 musicful : 



"Well roars the storm to those that hear 

 A deeper voice across the storm." 



The storm died at dawn. The rising sun shot a thou- 

 sand gleaming arrows among the tattered bluestem blades. 

 Though with tardy feet, Beauty came again. Standing in 



240 



