Things had not gone well with us of late.  The grasshoppers and drought played the mischief with out crops, and it was a question with me for months whether the wisest course to take was not to throw up my hands, let everything go to the bow-wows and, in the dry-goods firm, that I knew was returning to St. Louis, resume my situation still open for me.  A man hates to confess himself beaten, and I decided to remain where I was one more year.  Then, if there was no improvement, I would turn my back on Kansas forever.

“Master Thomas,” said Jack, as the dismal December afternoon drew to a close, “thar isn’t a pound ob flour in de house.  Shall I go to de village and get some?”

“No; I will go myself.”

It was the sudden realization of the unutterable loneliness I would feel without any companion that led me to this rash declaration.  The town was only a mile distant, but it would require hours to make the journey there and back, and I could not bear the thought of being without the society of any one for that time.  I had read everything in the house; the single horse and cow I owned had been looked after, and there was absolutely nothing to do but to sit down before the scant fire, listen to the sifting of the snow against the window panes, and give way to gloomy reverie.

Anything was preferable to this, and it was with a feeling akin to relief that I added: 

“I might do so had I not noticed this afternoon that he had gone lame.”

“Better let de flour go, den, for de snow am too deep and de storm to heavy for you to tramp all de way to town and back again.”

“No; while I haven’t much fear of our starving, yet, if the snow-fall continues, we shall be in a bad way.  I can carry twenty-five pounds without trouble, and will be back in a few hours; then the storm may rage as hard as it pleases, for all we care.”

The preparations were quickly made, and, to shorten my story, I may say that, after a laborious tramp, I reached the village without mishap, bought my quarter of a hundred of flour, slung it over my shoulder, and started on my return.

By this time I had made several disquieting discoveries.  The snow was falling faster than ever, the cold was increasing, a gale was blowing, and, under the circumstances, of course there was not a glimmer of light in the sky.  My course was directly across the prairie, and in the event of my tracks being obliterated by the snow—­as was almost certain to be the case—­it was almost impossible for me to prevent myself from going astray.

My hope lay in Jack’s promise that he would keep a bright light burning in the upper story to guide me on my course.  On a clear night this light was visible from the village, but somehow or other I failed to take into account the state of the weather.  The air was full of eddying flakes, which would render the headlight of a locomotive invisible a hundred yards distant.  Strange that this important fact never occurred to me until I was fully a fourth of a mile from the village.  Then, after looking in vain for the beacon light, the danger of my situation struck me, and I halted.