wouldn't trade for a farm; I don't need no Kodak in mine,
thankye. You just let this here view soak into your system,
Bud, where yuh can't lose it."

Thurston did. Long after he could close his eyes and see it in
every detail; the long, green slope with hundreds of cattle
loitering in the rank grass-growth; the winding sweep of the
river and the green, rolling hills beyond; and Bob leaning
against the rock beside him, smoking luxuriously with
half-closed eyes, while their horses dozed with drooping heads a
rein-length away.

"Say, Bud," Bob's voice drawled sleepily, "I wisht you'd sing
that Jerusalem song. I want to learn the words to it; I'm plumb
stuck on that piece. It's different from the general run uh
songs, don't yuh think? ost of 'em's about your old home that
yuh left in boyhood's happy days, and go back to find your girl
dead and sleeping in a little church-yard or else it's your
mother; or your girl marries the other man and you get it handed
to yuh right along--and they make a fellow kinda sick to his
stomach when he's got to sing 'em two or three hours at a
stretch on night- guard, just because he's plumb ignorant of
anything better. This here Jerusalem one sounds kinda grand,
and--the cattle seems to like it, too, for a change."

"The composer would feel flattered if he heard that," Thurston
laughed. He wanted to be left alone to day-dream and watch the
clouds trail lazily across to meet the hills; and there was an
embryonic poem forming, phrase by phrase, in his mind. But he
couldn't refuse Bob anything, so he sat a bit straighter and