It was the afternoon--cool and
beautiful. I had been nursing my indolence with a cigar and one of
the large arm-chairs which the veranda of the great hotel afforded.
Now and then I considered within myself as to the whereabouts of my
Old Cattleman, and was in a half humor to hunt him up. Just as my
thoughts were hardening into decision in that behalf, a high,
wavering note, evidently meant for song, came floating around the
corner of the house, from the veranda on the end. The singer was out
of range of eye, but I knew him for my aged friend. Thus he gave
forth:

"Dogville, Dogville!
A tavern an' a still,
That's all thar is in all Dog-ville."

"How do you feel to-day?" I asked as I took a chair near the
venerable musician. "Happy and healthy, I trust?"

"Never feels better in my life," responded the Old Cattleman. "If I
was to feel any better, I'd shorely go an' see a doctor."

"You are a singer, I observe."

"I'm melodious nacheral, but I'm gettin' so I sort o' stumbles in my
notes. Shoutin' an' singin' 'round a passel of cattle to keep 'em
from stampedin' on bad nights has sp'iled my voice, that a-way.
Thar's nothin' so weakenin', vocal, as them efforts in the open air
an' in the midst of the storms an' the elements. What for a song is
that I'm renderin'? Son, I learns that ballad long ago, back when