4 o RANCH LIFE AND THE HUNTING-TRAIL 



mering, tremulous leaves are hardly ever quiet, but if the wind stirs at all, 

 rustle and quiver and sigh all day long, comes every now and then the 

 soft, melancholy cooing of the mourning dove, whose voice always seems 



A BUCKING BRONCO. 



far away and expresses more than any other sound in nature the sadness 

 of gentle, hopeless, never-ending grief. The other birds are still ; and 

 very few animals move about. Now and then the black shadow of a 



