McCook weekly tribune. (McCook, Neb.) 188?-1886, 1884-11-20
Il Western Droyer's Story.

Il Western DrOver's Story.
Philadelphia News.
My name is Anthony Hunt. l am a
drover and live miles and miles away
upon the western praries. There wasn't
house in sight when first moved
there, my wife and l. and now we have
many neighbors, though those we have
are good ones.
One day, about ten years ago, went
away from home to sell some fifty head
of cattle-fine creatures as | ever saw.
| was to buy some groceries and dry
goods before | came back; and above all
a doll for our youngest, Dolly. She had
never had store doll of her own-only
rag babies her mother had made her.
Dolly could talk nothing else, and
went down to the very gate to call after
me to get big one. Nobody but a
parent can understand how full my
mind was of that toy, and how, when
the cattle were sold, the first thing |
hurried off to buy was Dolly's doll. l
found large one with eyes that would
open and shut when you pulled a wire,
and had it wrapped up in paper and
tucked it under my arm while [ had the
parcels of calico and delaine and tea
and sugar put up. Then, late as it was,
1 started for home. 1t might have been
more prudent to stay until morning, but
1 felt anxious to get back and eager to
hear Dolly's praises about her doll.
1 was mounted on steady going old
horse and pretty well loaded. Night
set in before 1 was mile from town,
and settled down as dark as pitch while
/ was in the middle of the darkest bit of
road / know of. could have felt my
way through, / remembered it so well;
and when the storm that had been brew
ing broke, and pelted the rain in tor
rents, l was five miles or maybe six
miles from home.
rode as fast as could, but all of
sudden l heard little cry like a child's
voice. l stopped short and listened. l
heard it again. l called and it answer
ed me. couldn't see a thing; all was as
dark as pitch. I got down and felt
around in the grass-called again, and
again was answered. Then l began to
wonder. I'm not timid, but l was
known to be drover and to have mon
ey about me. 1t might be a trap to
catch me unawares and rob and murder
me. am not superstitious, not very,
but how could real child be out on the
prairie in such night, at such an hour?
1t might be more than human. The bit
of coward that hides itself in most men
showed itself to me then, but once more
l heard the cry, and said 1:
elf any mans child is hereabOuts
Anthony Hunt is not the man to let it
die
I searched again. At last bethought
me of hollow under the hill and CROP
ped that way. Sure enough, l found a
little dripping thing that moaned and
sobbed as [ took it in my arms / call
ed my horse, and the beast came to me
and [ mounted and tucked the little
soaked thing under my coat as well as l
could, promising to take it home to
mamma. 1t seemed so tired, and pref
ty soon cried itself to sleep on my
bosom.
1t had slept there over an hour when
I saw my own windows. There were
lights in them, and supposed my wife
had lit them for my sake; but when l
got into the doorway l saw something
was the matter, and stood still with
dread fear of heart five minutes before l
could lift the latch. At last did it, and
saw the room full of neighbors, and my
wife amid them weeping. When she
saw me she hid her face.
''Oh, don't tell him. she said, sit
will kill him.
"Mhat is it, neighbors?'' l cried.
Nothing now, l hope. What's that
you have in your arms?''
ga poor lost child" said I; 81 found
it on the road. Take it, will you? I've
turned faint" And / lifted the sleeping
thing and saw the face of my own child,
my Dolly.
1t was my own darling, and none
other, that had picked up on the
drenched road. Ny little child had
wandered out to meet papa and the doll,
while the mother was at work, and they
lamenting her as one dead. thanked
heaven on my knees before them.
1t is not much of a story, neighbors,
but think of it often il the nights and
wonder how 1 could bear to live now if
had not stopped when heard the cry
of help upon the road, hardly louder
than a squirrels chirp.
That's Dolly yonder with her mother
in the meadow girl worth saviug-I
think (but, then, I'm her father. and
partial, maybe), the prettiest and sweet
thing this side of the Mississippi.