At Twilight

AT TWILIGHT. BY GEORGE E. BLAIR.

It was in the beginning of things. The father had brought his family to the edge of the great desert, with other outcasts, and there had paused, and begun the reclaiming and rehabilitation of the land. He had built his cabins, helped construct the irri- gation ditches that brought the life-giving waters, fought crickets and grasshoppers; he grew weary of alkali, saw the sun beat down upon the earth until it cracked with heat; saw the creeks dry up when the snows failed to fall in the winter months; hauled little, half-grown logs from the canyons to build houses, sheds, granaries and corrals; saw the trees planted around the house grow yellow, fade and die; saw nature repelling the intrusion of the settler, yet his heart did not faint. Now he was beginning to enjoy life a little with his family around him. 'If you had less alkali and more black soil, less sun and more rain, and the pesky crickets and grasshoppers would stay away, you'd have a tol'able fair country," said a California emigrant who had stopped to water his team. "I guess the Lord knew what he was about when he set us down here," replied the pioneer. "Well, maybe he did, and then ag'in, maybe he didn't. Maybe he wasn't mixin' in," said the emigrant. "Yes, he was," said the pioneer. Then he came near unto the stranger and looked him calmly in the eye. "You see, stranger, there are some things in our inner consciousness that we know, and cannot hide." The emigrant nodded. "You don't need to tell me this is a hard Sage brush, and alkali, and crickets are country. discouraging enough to make a man's heart sick unto death. And

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I know what death means. But there is a faith that upholds and sustains us; and that faith is stronger than death; aye, it conquers death. Those who possess it count as dross the riches and pleasures of this life that so many covet, and are content to toil through end- less discouragements to obtain the pearl of great price —eternal life in the kingdom of our Christ. I am one of those who, seek- ing truth and finding it, am content to suffer for its sake." The pioneer looked afar off, and his eyes had the look of one who communes with celestial messengers. The emigrant slowly mounted to his wagon seat, and drove on. There was no cause for words. Before such faith he could only wonder. It was not given to him.

The old pioneer went into the house, where his wife was set- ting the supper on the table. "Where's Will?" said she. "He's down in the field yet, mother; but he ought to be here in a little while. He's shocking the last five acres o' wheat." "Anne went over to Sister Prescott's," said the wife. "She's been feelin' poorly lately, and Anne took her over some o' that cur- rant jell. She told Anne she just doted on that currant jell, an' her currants hain't done very well this year." "Jes' like Anne," said the pioneer. "Well, supper's set," said the wife, as she sat down by the little back window.

The pioneer sat down by her. "Well, mother," he said, "we've only got the two lambs left out o' the whole flock, I hope they will stay in the fold for a while. It will be a comfort to help them and have them near us. The others are in the far country." "Anne seems uncommonly taken up with that young Can- field," said the wife. "Well, his father's a good man. known Hyrum Canfield, I've

boy and man, for over fifty years. He helped bury little Mary on the Platte river, and he made a headboard for her and wrote her name on it. I'll not forget Hyrum. That was a great trial,

mother." The little bent figure of the pioneer's wife, stooped more than ever; and down the patient face streamed the pent-up tears. She

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took his hand, and in the silence, the memory of the past stood before them, clothed in the sere garments of the angel of sorrows. How their thoughts traveled backward over the weary road, and centered on a spot of ground marked by the little headboard, but oh, how lonely, standing there on the great plains, and so far, far away !

"Do you remember, William," said the wife, in a choking voice, "how she held my hand, and said, 'How fast the river's run- ning, mama, and the water's so awful dark. Hold me tight.' I held her on my breast. Pretty soon she said, I've crossed the river,mama, and there's flowers, and grass, and trees and birds. I'm not afraid now, mama, dear;' and then she kissed me, and then " She bent her head upon her hands and wept. "I never see a flower, or bird, but what I think of her. Her angel hands have helped to keep us in the path of righteousness. And the others, too, their little faces come before me. They were all so little when they went. But the angels ferried them across the river, and took them to where the flowers and grass are grow- ing and the birds are singin' all day long." "It was God's will," said the wife. They sat silent for a while. Presently she spoke: "I believe Anne will leave us soon." "What do you mean? Not get married?" "Yes; Joey Canfield's comin' over to see you about it in a day or two." The pioneer bent his head and remained lost in thought for a^ few minutes. "Well," he said at last, with an effort, "1 can't say no, but it will be hard to part with her."

"It's the way of life."

"Yes, its the way of life." Will and Anne came in together. "I found her talking to Joe Canfield down by Sister Procter's," said Will, "and brought her home. Father, that last five acres is pretty heavy wheat." " Yes, 'tis, I noticed that." At supper. Will began on a subject that he had thought over for months. "Father, Joe Canfield's going to Cache Valley. He says it

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beats this valley. Plenty of grass and water. He likes it there, and you're likely to have your daughter go, too." "You be still," said Anne. "I am sorry he thinks of leavin'," said the pioneer. "There's plenty of free government land, lots of water, and Jiot much alkali, he says; and I guess everyone likes the valley. He wants me to go, too, father." "You, my son? why, I can't spare you." "You've told me that some day I'd have to cut loose, and I thought now as good a time as any. The farm is in good shape, but it isn't big enough for two, and some day we'll have to part." The pioneer laid down his knife. "Will, my boy, we will have to look after your future. I'll think about it." "Come, Anne," said Will, after supper had been cleared away, ""we've got to go to choir practice." "Don't sit up, mother," said Anne, as they left. "Very well," said the mother. The two young people, light of heart, dreaming of the future, went merrily down the road to the meeting-house. The two old people, heavy of heart, wearied with burdens, sat in the evening shadows, scarcely daring to dream of the future, fearing to face its loneliness, its twilight. "Mother," said the pioneer softly, as he caressed tha hand that lay inhis. "the young birds leave the old nest when their

wings get strong enough to bear them in their flight. It's the way of the world. We shall be left alone in the old nest." "Yes," she said patiently, "we shall be left alone." Night drew her curtain swiftly down, enfolding the old pioneer sitting with his arm around the sweetheart who had borne with him the heat and burden of the day, and the silence, calmer iihan their thoughts, brooded over them.