Thurston rode slowly like one in a dream, and the lure of the range-land was strong upon him. The deep breathing of three thousand sleeping cattle; the strong, animal odor; the black night which grew each moment blacker, and the rhythmic ebb and flow of the clear, untrained voice of a cowboy singing to his charge. If he could put it into words; if he could but picture the broody stillness, with frogs cr-ekk, er-ekking along the reedy creek-bank and a coyote yapping weirdly upon a distant hilltop! From the southwest came mutterings half-defiant and ominous. A breeze whispered something to the grasses as it crept away down the valley. “I stood in a church-yard just at ee-eve, While the sunset adorned the west.” It was Bob, drawing close out of the night. “You're doing fine, Kid; keep her a-going,” he commended, in an undertone as he passed, and Thurston moistened his unaccustomed lips and began industriously whistling “The Heart Bowed Down,” and from that jumped to Faust. Fifteen minutes exhausted his memory of the whistleable parts, and he was not given to tiresome repetitions. He stopped for a moment, and Bob's voice chanted admonishingly from somewhere, “Keep her a-go-o-ing, Bud, old boy!” So Thurston took breath and began on “The Holy City,” and came near laughing at the incongruity of the song; only he remembered that he must not frighten the cattle, and checked the impulse. “Say,” Bob began when he came near enough, “do yuh know the words uh that piece? It's a peach; I wisht you'd sing it.” He rode on, still humming the woes of the lady who married for gold. Thurston obeyed while the high-piled thunder-heads rumbled deep accompaniment, like the resonant lower tones of a bass viol. “Last night I lay a-sleeping, there came a dream so fair; I stood in old Jerusalem, beside the temple there.” A steer stepped restlessly out of the herd, and Thurston's horse, trained to the work, of his own accord turned him gently back. “I heard the children singing; and ever as they sang, Me thought the voice of angels from heaven in answer rang.” From the west the thunder boomed, drowning the words in its deep-throated growl. “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, lift up your gates and sing.” “Hit her up a little faster, Bud, or we'll lose some. They're getting on their feet with that thunder.” Sunfish, in answer to Thurston's touch on the reins, quickened to a trot. The joggling was not conducive to the best vocal expression, but the singer persevered: “Hosanna in the highest, Hosanna to your King!” Flash! the lightning cut through the storm-clouds, and Bob, who had contented himself with a subdued whistling while he listened, took up the refrain: “Jerusalem, Jerusalem.”