In 1846 the prairie town of Oak River existed only in a settler's dream.

It was the first Tuesday in August. The Nebraska heat rolled in upon one like the engulfing waves of a dry sea,--a thick material substance against which one seemed to push when moving about.

Christmas Eve was a night of song that wrapped itself about you like a shawl. But it warmed more than your body. It warmed your heart... filled it, too, with melody that would last forever.

Regardless of the popular literary trend of the times, write the thing which lies close to your heart.

You could not stop the winds and you could not stop Time. It went on and on,-and on.

Obeying an inalienable law, things grew, spreading riotous and strange in their instinct for growth.