Pungent wreaths of smoke, slow drifting,
Floated lazily above,
To the dried grass of the ceiling
From the cracked and rusty stove.
Willow poles athwart for rafters
Sagged beneath the dirt roof's strain,
And a piece of grease-smeared paper
Formed the only window-pane.
In the center, on the dirt floor
Stood a table-like affair
Fashioned from a wagon end-gate,
Where Zach spread his scanty fare.


10

There for weeks lay Billy, helpless,
Racked with mad'ning fever pains,
As the burning sun of summer
Scorches sere the desert plains.
Then he lay with cold, white features
And the feeble, scarce drawn breath,
As the silent winter prairie
Lies beneath its shroud of death.
Ofttimes when the raging sickness
Sent the hot blood to his brain,
He would point with frantic gesture
To the dingy window pane,
Calling in excited mutterings,
Eyes transfixed in frenzied fright--