Essex County Herald

Good Farmer Thistlepod sat in his farm-house on the prairie wide. The shadows of the evening were falling silently over the shingled roof. There was a crashing sound like a burst of sarcastic laughter in Congress. A person—a stranger to Farmer Thistlepod and his family—came through the door without the formality of an introduction, disturbing the ceiling on his way through and falling upon the dog, killing it instantly.

"Where from, stranger?"

The stranger rose to his feet, and apologizing for his disheveled condition and the plastering on his coat, said that he was from Sac county.

"Expect any more of your folks along putty soon?"

The stranger reckoned not; good many started when he did, but they mostly went in different directions. Did bring part of his wagon along with him, but dropped it out in the barnyard. Reckoned he could stay all night?

Farmer Thistlepod allowed he could. They wa'n't very much crowded this time of the year. Couple of fellows from Missouri came down the chimney last Sunday night, and a horse and wagon slid into the smokehouse middle of the week, but cyclone travel was mostly over for the season. Bring much of your farm with you?

The stranger reckoned he only started with twenty acres of timber land and the barn. The barn dropped into the creek, but the timber land he scattered over Hardin and Miller townships.

Farmer Thistlepod, suddenly bethinking himself of the rites of hospitality, asked if his guest had been to supper. The guest said no, he had not, and they started for the dining-room, Farmer Thistlepod remarking that he wouldn't charge him anything for supper and lodging, and they could settle for damages in the morning.—Brooklyn Eagle.