Roadside Meetings

Roadside Meetings

Roadside Meetings

Roadside Meetings

Excerpt

ONE Sunday afternoon in the summer of 1884 whilst I, a young man of twenty-three, was sitting with my mother and father in our home in Ordway, a minute village on the treeless plain of South Dakota, I heard a knock on the door. Thinking it the hand of a neighbor, I called out heartily, "Come in!"

The visitor proved to be a stranger, a tall, fair-skinned, blue-eyed man of thirty-five, who said, "My name is Bashford. I am a Methodist minister and I have just been speaking in your little church. Some one spoke of you as a Wisconsin family and I have called to have a chat with you."

My father gave him a chair and while he talked as freely as a neighbor I studied him. He was humorous, kindly, and understanding, a lovable character who sensed our situation and did not count it against us.

My father, who had been one of the first to settle in Ordway, three years before, owned a farm some two miles out but was keeping a general store at this time and my mother and sister were housekeeping in a building which ran alongside the wareroom--camping out while waiting for something better. The land was a level, treeless, arid . . .

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