"'Bird of the wilderness, blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!'" he quoted. "For Heaven's sake, child," he continued, in some irritation, "where did you learn that echo of the morgue?" "Don't you like 'er?" asked Ches, in his turn astonished at such a lack of taste. "W'y, dat's er gig in der city--everybuddy an' der ginnies wid der organs is givin' dat out all day long." "Well, let 'em," commanded Jim. "Don't introduce it to this part of the country. As you render it, through the nose, and with the wail at the end, it is a thing to make a strong man lie down and give up the ghost in sheer disgust. Ches, does it really make you feel good to sing it?" "Yessir--kinder," replied Ches hesitatingly. "Lord!" thought Jim. "What a life, to make a song like that a recreation!" Then aloud: "It's bad luck to sing before breakfast, Ches. I'll teach you a livelier song than that when we hit the trail again." So it came to pass that during the first miles of their day's journey the way was enlivened by the notes of _The Arkansas Traveler_, _Garry Owen_, _Where's My Linda-Cinda Gone?_, _Baltimore Girls_, and other songs of a lively character. Ches approved of these in moderation. Then Jim tried an experiment. With a serious face, but half an eye on the boy, he howled, moaned and grunted _The Cow-boy's Lament_, which still presents the insoluble problem of whether the words or the music are drearier. "OooooOOO!!! Pla-a-ay your fifes l-o-o-w-l-y, a-a-nd beee-eat your drums sl-o-o-o-wly, and play the dead m-a-arch as you carry me o-o-o-on!" mourned Jim. Ches was all attention. "For I'm o-o-o-nly a p-o-o-o-r cow-boy, and I know I've done w-r-o-o-o-o-o-ng!" wailed the singer, in conclusion. "How'd you like that, Ches?" "Say, dat's a ringer!" cried the boy enthusiastically. Jim sat him down by the roadside and laughed his fill. "I think you're hopeless," he gasped. The boy was hurt in a way he could not understand. Something pained him--a new sensation, of not being up to the requirements of another's view. His forced acute intelligence made a bull's-eye shot. "P'r'aps w'en I've got er chist and t'umpers on me like you, I'll like der udder kin' er song," he said. Jim looked at the pathetic little figure on the burro, and his conscience smote him. "That's right, boy," he replied very kindly. "I was only joking--ought not to be any ill feeling between friends over a joke, you know. Now, you sing ahead all you plenty please." "Don't say nuttin' more about it," replied Ches. "It's all square." A little farther on Jim noticed a piece of quartz outcrop with a metal stain on it. Now, a miner can no more pass such a thing than some others could refuse to pick up the pin shining at their feet, so he took a stone and hammered off a specimen for future reference. In the meantime Ches, on the burro, got around the turn of the trail.