Lucky

LUCKY
A Tale of the Western Prairie
By Eva Bell Botsford

"Words are tiny drops of ink." ANON.

BUFFALO
THE PETER PAUL BOOK COMPANY
1895
Copyright, 1895, By EVA BELL BOTSFORD.
PRINTED AND BOUND BY
THE PETER PAUL BOOK COMPANY,
BUFFALO, N. Y.

TO SCHOOLMATES AND TEACHERS OF THE DETROIT
TRAINING SCHOOL, THIS BOOK IS INSCRIBED WITH REGARD
AND AFFECTION.

CONTENTS
I. A LILY AMONG WEEDS

II. A DREAMING GIRL AND A PRAIRIE KNIGHT
III. FOLK LORE AND THE NEW NEIGHBORS 28
IV. BUB AND ROSE
V. AFTER FOUR YEARS
VI. IN THE CITY
VII. A PROPOSAL
VIII. THE PALLADIAN ACADEMY AND NEW LESSONS OF
LIFE
IX. THALIA
X. AT THE ROYSTER FARM LUND COMES INTO HlS
INHERITANCE
XI. MRS. STAR-HARTMAN
XII. THALIA'S OLD STUDIO
XIII. THE CAMP MEETING AND WHAT AN OLD BOOK TOLD
XIV. ALL THINGS COME ROUND TO HIM WHO WILL BUT
WAIT

LUCKY
A TALE OF THE WESTERN PRAIRIE.
CHAPTER I.
A LILY AMDNG WEEDS.
THE great, pompous faced sun came up from behind the little green

hills, and the cackle of ducks from the region of the rush-grown ravine
greeted his advent. The farm hands were bringing out their breaking
ploughs from the machine shed, whistling stray snatches of dance
music and love songs. Two buxom girls in pink calico sun-bonnets
stood beside some pails of foaming milk, guarding it from the ravages
of pigs and chickens until the arrival of the man whose mission was to
convey it to the vats in the dairy house. The cattle were leisurely
making their way through the wide open gate of the spacious
pine-board corral, quite indifferent to the "Whoop halloo! G'lang
there!" of the herd boy, which rang out sonorously upon the air,
accompanied by the cracking of an immense whip wielded with more
ostentation than purpose. They knew the whip and its owner, and were
not afraid of its sting.
Ninety sleek milch cows were there in the herd, of various sizes and
colors. There was a mild-eyed dun beauty with white spots on her
flanks, a noble roan with a line along her back, and a coquettish little
speckled heifer with spiked horns; but the queen of the herd was a
superb black creature with a star on her brow who carried her head with
a proud air as if conscious of superior distinction. Slowly they lagged,
nipping at the tender grass as they went, while the herd boy rode to and
fro on his ginger-colored pony, vainly shouting and flourishing his
formidable whip.
This was the dairy farm of the Roysters. To the right of the corral was
the spring, noted far and wide for its water of icy coldness, walled up
with limestone and shaded by overhanging willows. It was the pride of
the farm. To the south, were the barns and sheds, while to the west
stood the dairy house, or cheese house, as it was more commonly called,
an immense frame structure painted pale yellow like the cheeses it
contained; to the right of that, was a quaint L shaped building known as
the "House." In this latter place Mrs. Royster held her august sway and
also the official position of postmistress for the settlement, that honor
having been thrust upon her because no one else would have it.
By the spring stood a child of some ten or eleven years of age, dressed
in a loose gown of coarse, brown ducking. Her feet were bare and

scarred by daily contact with stone and stubble. This was Nana Meers,
adopted daughter, bound child, ward, or nobody knew what, of the
Roysters. She was beautiful, not with the soft outlines and fresh tints of
the ordinarily pretty child, but wildly, defiantly dark and lovely. Her
arms were full of long trailing rush blades, and a sober smile stole into
her great eyes, as she stroked the green, glossy, ribbon-like things, with
one little brown palm. The look changed when the herd boy rode past.
It became intense and eager. She flew to him, and put her hand
entreatingly upon his stirrup.
"What is it, young ' un?" came the gruff query.
"Oh Lund, you won't forget to get my almanick, now will you?" she
coaxed plaintively.
"Not if I think of it," was the curt reply, and the boy drove his cattle
away, over the hills and out of sight.
The child, however, was contented. She returned to the shade of the
willows and sat down musing. "I'm going to have a almanick! Won't it
be awful splendid! It won't be a old one, but bran' new with white,
shiny leaves, and it won't be a borrered one, but all mine, mine, mine!
If Lund don't forget it, it will, and I guess he won't."
Presently, a head appeared