He surveyed the fence, and all gladness left him and a deep melancholy settled down upon his spirit.

Thirty yards of board fence nine feet high.

Life to him seemed hollow, and existence but a burden.

Sighing, he dipped his brush and passed it along the topmost plank; repeated the operation; did it again; compared the insignificant whitewashed streak with the far-reaching continent of unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a tree-box discouraged.

Jim came skipping out at the gate with a tin pail, and singing Buffalo Gals.