The old-time windlass pump that, operated by a blind burro, once lifted water for the long vanished herds, was a pathetic old wreck, incapable now of offering drink to a thirsty sparrow.

On their other hand, beneath the wide branches of giant sycamores and walnuts, and backed by a tangled orchard wilderness, stood an old house, empty and neglected, as if in the shadowy gloom of the untrimmed trees it awaited, lonely and forlorn, the kindly hand of oblivion.
"This is the old Acton homestead," said the Dean quietly, as one might speak beside an ancient grave.
Then as they were driving through the narrow lane that crosses the great meadow, he indicated with a nod of his head group of buildings on the other side of the green fields, and something less than a mile to the south.
"That's Jim Reid's place.

His iron is the Pot-Hook-S.

Jim's stock runs on the old Acton range, but the homestead belongs to Phil yet.

Jim Reid's a fine man." The Dean spoke stoutly, almost as though he were making the assertion to convince himself.