Here it is
Whoever has made a voyage up the I-70 must remember the plains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Kansas plains family, and are seen to the north and south of the highway, flowing and waving to the noble sea of grain, and lording it over the sounding forest. Every change of seasons, every change of weather, indeed every hour of the day, produce some change in the magical hues and shapes of the grains; and they regarded by all the good house-wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled they are clothed in tans and yellows, and print their soft outlines on the clear evening sky; but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of a mud brown vapors about the ground, which in the highness of the mighty sun is at the height of it’s peak making even the plains become natural.