realized the need of becoming good friends
with his animals. Night after night, riding
up and down in the twilight of the stars, or
dozing, rolled in his blanket, in the shelter
of a knoll, he would hear a low roar; it
was the cry of the alarmist. Then from
every direction the cattle would rise with
trembling awkwardness on their knees, and
answer, giving out sullen bellowings. Some
of them would begin to move from place to
place, spreading the baseless alarm, and
then came the time for action, else over the
plain in mere fruitless frenzy would go the
whole frantic band, lashed to madness by
their own fears, trampling each other, heed-
less of any obstacle, in pitiable, deadly rout.
Waite knew the premonitory signs well, and
at the first warning bellow he was on his
feet, alert and determined, his energy
nerved for a struggle in which he always
conquered.

Waite had a secret which he told to none,
knowing, in his unanalytical fashion, that it
would not be believed in. But soon as ever
the dark heads of the cattle began to lift
themselves, he sent a resonant voice out
into the stillness. The songs he sang were
hymns, and he made them into a sort of
imperative lullaby. Waite let his lungs