"Who's that yelling?" queried Ruth, suddenly.
"Huh! that's somebody singing."
"Singing?"
"Yep."
"'Way out here?"
"Yep. It's Fred English, I guess. And he's no Caruso."
"But what's he singing for?' demanded the disturbed Ruth, for the sounds that floated to their ears were mournful to a degree.
"To keep the cattle quiet," explained the ranch girl. "Singing often keeps the cows from milling"
"Milling?" repeated Ruth.
"That's when they begin to get uneasy, and mill around and around in a circle. Cows are just as foolish as a flock of hens."
"But you don't mean to say the boys sing 'em to sleep?" laughed Ruth.
"Something like that. It often keeps 'em quiet. Lets 'em know there's humans about."
"Why, I really thought he must be making that noise to keep himself from feeling lonely," chuckled Ruth.
"Nobody'd want to do that, you know," returned Jane Ann, with seriousness. "Especially when they can't sing no better than that Fred English."
"It is worse than a mourning dove," com-
