Seagraves，animpressionableyoungmanjunioreditoroftheBoomtownSpike，threwhimselfdownonthesod，pulledhishatrimdownoverhiseyes，andlookedawayovertheplain。ItwasthesecondyearofBoom-town’sexistence，andSeagraveshadnotyetgrownrestlessunderitsmonotony。Aroundhimthegophersplayedsaucily。Teamsweremovinghereandthereacrossthesod，withapeculiarnoiseless，effortlessmotionthatmadethemseemascalm，lazy，andunsubstantialasthemistthroughwhichtheymadetheirway；eventhesoundofpassingwagonswasasortoflow，well-fed，self-satisfiedchuckle。
Seagraves，“holdingdownaclaim“nearRob，hadcometoseehisneighboring“bach“becauseoffeelingtheneedofcompany；butnowthathewasnearenoughtohearhimprancingaboutgettingsupper，hewascontenttoliealoneonaslopeofthegreensod。
Thesilenceoftheprairieatnightwaswell-nighterrible。Manyanight，asSeagraveslayinhisbunkagainstthesideofhiscabin，hewouldstrainhiseartoheartheslightestsound，andhelisteningthussometimesforminutesbeforethesqueakofamouseorthestepofapassingfoxcameasarelieftotheachingsense。Inthedaytime，however，andespeciallyonamorning，theprairiewasanotherthing。Thepigeons，thelarks；thecranes，themultitudinousvoicesofthegroundbirdsandsnipesandinsects，madetheairpulsatewithsound-achorusthatdiedawayintoaninfinitemurmurofmusic。
“Hello，Seagraves!“yelledRobfromthedoor。“Thebiscuitare’mostdone。“
Seagravesdidnotspeak，onlynoddedhisheadandslowlyrose。