o feel drowsy. They decided to take turns
watching the cattle and napping. The cattle also seemed to feel the heat
and were hunting patches of shade, lying down to chew their cuds
contentedly. The air seemed palpitating with the incessant humming and
whirring of insects. Bees, and white and yellow butterflies flittered in
a mat of weeds and wild blackberry vines, which had entirely covered an
angle of the old rail fence near them.

Ernest's nap was a long one. The boy had been studying hard for his
examinations and was thoroughly tired. He was lying on his side, his
face resting on his hand, and his old straw hat drawn over his face to
keep off the flies. But the nagging insects soon discovered his neck and
hands. Chicken Little fished his bandanna out of his pocket to protect
his neck, covering the hand that lay on the grass with her own
handkerchief.

He woke at length with a start, smiling up at Chicken Little when he
discovered the handkerchiefs.

"Thank you, Sis. Whew, I must have slept for keeps," he added, glancing
at the sun. "It's four o'clock. The folks will be along about six."

He sat up and took a survey of the field. The cattle were all quiet.
Chicken Little was braiding little baskets with a handful of cat tail
leaves she had brought from the slough. Ernest reached over and patted
the busy fingers.

"Sis, I'm mighty fond of you--do you know it?"

Chicken Little looked up at him affectionately. "I suspected it,
Ernest," she answered demurely.

The boy was going on with his own thoughts. "I'm mighty glad to get away
from the ranch. I don't believe I'm cut out for this sort of thing.
Guess, maybe, I'm not democratic enough--you remember that party at
Jenkins'? Well, I've been thinking about it a good deal since. I guess
Sherm sort of set me to thinking with his fuss about the kissing games.
At any rate, I've made up my mind I don't intend to be like any of the
boys on this creek, and I don't propose that you shall be like any of
the girls if I can help it. It isn't that they aren't smart enough and
good enough. The people round here are mighty touchy about one person's
being just as good as another. Maybe one person is born just as good as
anybody else, but, thank goodness, they don't all stay alike. I mayn't
be any better than the Craft boys, but I know I'm a sight cleaner, and I
don't murder the king's English quite every other word, and I know
enough to be polite to a lady. And if I take the troub