er peculiarity of ranch life is that where there are hundreds or,
perhaps, thousands of cows in a herd, not a single cow is milked, nor
is a cup of milk or pound of butter ever seen upon the ranch table. It
is altogether different on Hooker's ranch. There is a separate herd of
milch cows in charge of a man whose duty it is to keep the table
supplied with plenty of fresh milk and butter. No milk ever goes to
waste. If there is a surplus it is fed to the calves, pigs and poultry.

During the branding season the work of the round-up is all done in
corrals instead of, as formerly, out upon the open range. Each calf
after it is branded, if it is old and strong enough to wean, is taken
from the cow and turned into a separate pasture. It prevents the weak
mother cow from being dragged to death by a strong sucking calf and
saves the pampered calf from dying of blackleg by a timely change of
diet.

Instead of classing the cattle out on the open range as is the usual
custom, by an original system of corrals, gates and chutes the cattle
are much more easily and quickly classified without any cruelty or
injury inflicted upon either man or beast. Classing cattle at a
round-up by the old method is a hard and often cruel process, that
requires a small army of both men and horses and is always rough and
severe on the men, horses and cattle.

Besides the herds of sleek cattle, there are also horses galore, enough
to do all of the work on the ranch as well as for pleasure riding and
driving. There is likewise a kennel of fine greyhounds that are the
Colonel's special pride. His cattle, horses and dogs are all of the
best, as he believes in thoroughbreds and has no use whatever for
scrubs of either the human or brute kind.

The dogs are fond of their master and lavish their caresses on him with
almost human affection. In the morning when they meet him at the door
Ketchum pokes his nose into one of his master's half open hands and
Killum performs the same act with the other hand. Blackie nips him
playfully on the leg while Dash and the rest of the pack race about
like mad, trying to express the exuberance of their joy.

In the bunch is little Bob, the fox terrier, who tries hard but is not
always able to keep up with the hounds in a race. He is active and
gets over the ground lively for a small dog, but in a long chase is
completely distanced and outclassed to his apparent disgust. Aside
from the fine sport that the dogs