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,