On the Cattle Ranges 85 



he would drop softly from twig to twig, until the 

 lowest limb was reached, when he would rise, flut- 

 tering and leaping through the branches, his song 

 never ceasing for an instant, until he reached the 

 summit of the tree and launched into the warm, 

 scent-laden air, floating in spirals, with outspread 

 wings, until, as if spent, he sank gently back into the 

 tree and down through the branches, while his song 

 rose into an ecstasy of ardor and passion. His 

 voice rang like a clarionet, in rich, full tones, and 

 his execution covered the widest possible compass; 

 theme followed theme, a torrent of music, a swell- 

 ing tide of harmony, in which scarcely any two bars 

 were alike. I stayed till midnight listening to him ; 

 he was singing when I went to sleep; he was still 

 singing when I woke a couple of hours later; he 

 sang through the livelong night. 



There are many singers beside the meadow-lark 

 and little skylark in the plains country; that brown 

 and desolate land, once the home of the thronging 

 buffalo, still haunted by the bands of the prong- 

 buck, and roamed over in ever-increasing numbers by 

 the branded herds of the ranchman. In the brush 

 of the river bottoms there are the thrasher and song 

 sparrow ; on the grassy uplands the lark finch, vesper 

 sparrow, and lark bunting ; and in the rough canyons 

 the rock wren, with its ringing melody. 



Yet in certain moods a man cares less for even 

 the loveliest bird songs than for the wilder, harsher, 



