THE FROZEN NORTH A bitter wind swept the snowy prairie and the cold was arctic when Clarke, shivering in his furs, came into sight of his homestead as he walked back from Sweetwater.

He had gone there for his mail, which included an English newspaper, and had taken supper at the hotel.

It was now about two hours after dark, but a full moon hung in the western sky, and the cluster of wooden buildings formed a shadowy blur on the glittering plain.

There was no fence, not a tree to break the white expanse that ran back to the skyline, and it struck Clarke that the place looked very dreary.
He walked on, with the fine, dry snow the wind whipped up glistening on his furs.

On reaching the homestead, he went first to the stable--built of sod, which was cheaper and warmer than sawed lumber--and, lighting a lantern, fed his teams.