A lonely traveler on horseback, riding through a dreary section of the
far West, eagerly scanned the horizon for some signs of a human
habitation. At last away in the distance he spied a cabin, put his horse
to a trot, only to find the house deserted. Nailed on the front door was
a sheet of paper on which he read the following pathetic story:
Five miles from water.
Ten miles from timber.
A hundred miles from a neighbor.
A hundred and fifty miles from a post office.
Two hundred and fifty from a railroad.
God bless our home!
We have gone East to spend the winter with my wife's folks.