"Nothing," he answered sadly. "The ranch is depleted. Three hundred beautiful young bulls depart to-morrow for South America, and Thayer--you met him last night--is taking twenty carloads of rams. All I can say is that my congratulations are extended to Idaho and Chile." "Plant more acorns," Paula laughed, her arms about her sisters, the three of them smilingly expectant of an inevitable antic. "Oh, Dick, sing your acorn song," Lute begged. He shook his head solemnly. "I've got a better one. It's purest orthodoxy. It's got Red Cloud and his acorn song skinned to death. Listen! This is the song of the little East-sider, on her first trip to the country under the auspices of her Sunday School. She's quite young. Pay particular attention to her lisp." And then Dick chanted, lisping: "The goldfish thwimmeth in the bowl, The robin thiths upon the tree; What maketh them thit so eathily? Who stuckth the fur upon their breasths? God! God! He done it!" "Cribbed," was Ernestine's judgment, as the laughter died away. "Sure," Dick agreed. "I got it from the _Rancher and Stockman_, that got it from the _Swine Breeders' Journal_, that got it from the _Western Advocate_, that got it from _Public Opinion_, that got it, undoubtedly, from the little girl herself, or, rather from her Sunday School teacher. For that matter I am convinced it was first printed in _Our Dumb Animals_." The bronze gong rang out its second call, and Paula, one arm around Dick, the other around Rita, led the way into the house, while, bringing up the rear, Bert Wainwright showed Lute Ernestine a new tango step. "One thing, Thayer," Dick said in an aside, after releasing himself from the girls, as they jostled in confusion where they met Thayer and Naismith at the head of the stairway leading down to the dining room. "Before you leave us, cast your eyes over those Merinos. I really have to brag about them, and American sheepmen will have to come to them. Of course, started with imported stock, but I've made a California strain that will make the French breeders sit up. See Wardman and take your pick. Get Naismith to look them over with you. Stick half a dozen of them in your train-load, with my compliments, and let your Idaho sheepmen get a line on them." They seated at a table, capable of indefinite extension, in a long, low dining room that was a replica of the hacienda dining rooms of the Mexican land-kings of old California. The floor was of large brown tiles, the beamed ceiling and the walls were whitewashed, and the huge, undecorated, cement fireplace was an achievement in massiveness and simplicity. Greenery and blooms nodded from without the deep-embrasured windows, and the room expressed the sense of cleanness, chastity, and coolness.