FOR LINCOLN'S SAKE.
"The prairie is on fire!" So cried a horseman, as he rode by the school.
It was a calm, glimmering September day. Prairie Island rose with red and yellow and crisping leaves, like a royal tent amid a dead sea of flowers. The prairie grass was dry, though still mingled with a green undergrowth. Prairie chickens were everywhere, quails, and plover.
At midday a billowy cloud of smoke began to wall the eastern horizon, and it slowly rolled forward, driven by the current of the air.
"O-o-oh!" said one of the scholars! "Look! look! What the man said is true—the prairie is on fire!"
Jasper went to the door. The blue sky had turned to an ashy hue, and the sun was a dull red. An unnatural wind had arisen like a draft of air.
"Teacher, can we go out and look?" asked several voices.
"Yes," said Jasper, "the school may take a recess."
The pupils went to the verge of the trees, and watched the billowy columns of smoke in the distance.
The world seemed to change. The air filled with flocks of frightened birds. The sky became veiled, and the sun was as red as blood.