THE WINDS OF KANSAS.

Lake Wakatip Mail, Issue 1502, 24 October 1885, Page 3

THE WINDS OF KANSAS.

The most remarkable feature of Kansas is the wind, which sweeps past us from north to south, from south to north again, without a wind-break between us and the North Pole. It would be to > mu<'*h to say that the wind always b'ows in Kansa«, but one who has been in the process of acclimation feels that the pauses are both rare and short. Down upon us, often without a moment's warning, sweeps a norther, usually of three days duration Tnen the weather gradually moderates, and the wind changes to the south, to be succeeded shortly by another northern gale. Now and then we have an equally strong and trying south wind, a genuine sirocco from the Staked Plain of Texas, hot to oilhands and cheeks, and almost irresistible in its force.

Occasionally in the spring there cornea a day that seems to have all the zones and seasons condens-d into its

brief space. Two or three sueh daya are indelibly fixed in my memory The morning may dawn u >Oll us clear, cool and soft, with sparkling dew, and the song of a thousaud meadow larks. The sun comes grandlv up above the clean-cut horizon. We feel no langour. It is a delight to live and breathe and move. The sun mounts t w irds the zenith, and the air begins t > grow hot. It is insufferably hot. T e •« is no tree, no hill, no rock to give a cooling shade, and the deep-blue sky contains no passing cloud to give us a moment's respite from the sun's blinding rays. We think regretfully of the umbrella that yesterday's wind turned outside in, and determine to put up a tent as soon aa the weather is cooi enough to encourage the effort. But atmospheric stillness never lasts long in Kansas. The wind begins to blow, aud our stifling breath grows more free. From the south the wind comes, reaching our ears with a murmuring sound before we feel it in our faces. The prairie grass and fields of grain rise and fall, first in waves, and then in heaving billows. The wiud increases in force and becomes a sirocco, scorching our faces worsa than the hotiest rays of the sun could do. There is no dignity in walking. Wo smuggle with our skirts and wraps. We tie our hats down, and hold on to them with both hands and still they escape us, and w r e rush madly after them. The clothes on the line at the next door flap wildly around, beating out their hems and splitting in every weakened spot, while the washerwoman is striving to keep her balance long enough to rescue them before their total destruction ; lucky is she if they are not snatched from her grasp and scattered far over the prairie never to be recovered. Great tumble-weeds come rolling like hoops across the plain. Here comes a market-basket escaped from the hand of some urchin who for a moment forgot to be vigilant. We start to catch it for him, but it eludes us, and goes bumping over the prairie for half a mile or more, and is soon out of sight. A canvas-covered carriage is seised by the wind and hurled down the street. On the next house comes toppling down the stovepipe chimney, Three or four " claim

shanties" are laid over on their sides, and the builders of the large house in the upper part of the town will have to begin to-morrow putting up their frame anew. We think about tornadoes and cyclones, and then quietly remark, "This is'utanything ; just an ordinary straight blow." Clouds of dust fill the air, penetrating the thickest veils, reddening our eyes, and sifting through the cracks of doors and windows, to the utter ruin of all good housekeeping.— Atlantic Monthly.