however, no slow transition. Rushing winds from the North-west sweep
the sky, the snow vanishes, and after a week or two, during which the
prairie trails are impassable, the bleached grass dries and green blades
and flowers spring from the steaming sod.

Moreover, the country round Long Lake has some beauty. To the east,
it runs back, bare and level, with scarcely a tree to break the vast
expanse; but to the west low undulations rise to the edge of the next
tableland. Sandhills mark the summits, but the slopes are checkered with
birches and poplars, and creeks of clear water flow through the hollows
in the shadow of thick bluffs. There are many ponds, and here and there
a shallow lake shines amidst the sweep of grass. The clear air and the
distance the view commands give the landscape a distinctive charm. One
has a sense of space and freedom; all the eye rests upon is clean-cut.

It was a bright morning when Charnock drove up to the door of Keller's
hotel. The street was one-sided, and for the most part of its length,
small, ship-lap-board houses boldly fronted the prairie. A few had
shallow verandas that relieved their bareness, but the rest were frankly
ugly, and in some the front was carried up level with the roof-ridge,
giving them a harsh squareness of outline. A plank sidewalk, raised a
foot or two above the ground, ran along the street, where the black soil
was torn by wagon wheels.

There was nothing attractive about the settlement, and Charnock had once
been repelled by its dreariness. He, however, liked society, and as the
settlement was the only center of human intercourse, had acquired the
habit of spending time there that ought to have been devoted to his
farm. He enjoyed a game of pool, and to sit on the hotel veranda,
bantering the loungers, was a pleasant change from driving the plow or