CHRISTIAN FOUNDATIONS
Something was going on as I was growing up on the homestead of which I was not even aware. Our parents, especially our mother, were laying a foundation of Christian principles which would serve as a sort of bed-rock for our later lives. But being by nature rather shallow and unthinking, I was quite unaware of the process.
Mom had been very active in the Methodist Church as a girl in Wisconsin. When she and Dad were married, and came out to the wild west, settling on the homestead a minimum of fifteen miles from the nearest Methodist Church, it must have seemed to her that she was terribly alone and isolated from Christian things. But as I have indicated before, Mom was an organizer, and the communitywas not without some church influence for long.
There were, of course, other people in the area who were interested in Christian values. Mrs. Roy Richter, whom we knew affectionately as Aunt Addie, was a fervent member of the Reformed Church of Latter Day Saints--a split-off group from the Mormon Church. South of the Richters, at that time, lived old Mrs. Ellsworth, who was an enthusiastic member of the Mormon Church. I can remember that she was one of the few women in the neighborhood who had time to visit much. She used to come to our place to visit with our mother. On one such visit, she had brought the Book of Mormon, and persuaded Mom to read it. She promised that if Mom read that book with an open mind, she would be persuaded that it was true. Mom tried it, she told us, but it didn't work for her, and she stuck with her trust in the Bible alone.
I'm glad to say that didn't break her friendship with Mrs. Ellsworth. I had mixed feelings even then, as a very small boy, about the Ellsworths. Once Mrs. Ellsworth brought a boy with her, probably a grandson, whose name was Jack John Ellsworth, or at least that was what she called him. (Once or twice when I was small some of the neighbors tried to call me by that name,"Jack John," which I hated fiercely!) Jack John was two or three years older than I. On one visit, when he had been brought along, he talked me into trying to lick the frost off the rim of our wagon wheel. It was a very cold morning, and I decided to try it. Of course, my tongue immediately was frozen to the steel rim. I sent out what you might call an alarm call (!), and it wasn't long before Mom came out with some warm water and rescued me. But I lost a lot of skin off my tongue, and couldn't taste things well for some time.That did not endear Jack John to me.
I think it was on that same day that Jack John and I were playing around at the back of the house, where Dad stored the drum of kerosene which we used for the lamps, lantern, the kerosene cooking stove (in summer), and so on. There was a little tin cup there, with a pouring spout, which we used for filling the lamps. Jack John had the nerve to partly fill that cup and take a swallow of kerosene! (He may have been just pretending.) That did it! I ran in to tattle, not concerned about the possible difficulty he might be in, but to get him in trouble for stealing some of our kerosene! I really don't remember that he was even sick from that, but I was disappointed that no drastic action was taken to punish him. Like I say, we weren't the best of friends then or later.
Sometime in those years before I was old enough to even remember anything, a missionary from the American Sunday School Union started a Sunday School at the Richter School. His name was Reverend Lewis. The main thing I do remember about him was that he drove one of the first cars in our neighborhood--a Model T Ford touring car, with a black canvas top. I can still recall seeing that Ford parked out in front of our house. He didn't bother to drive it up into our front yard, but stopped out across the lane in front of the house. He was a tall, rather gangly man, and in my memory was always dressed in black. More than that I can't remember, but I know that my folks thought very highly of him, and were happy whenever he came to Sunday School or to our house for a visit.
Also during those early years, occasionally a minister would come out from Glasgow to conduct a worship service at Richter School. One of these visiting preachers was a Reverend Pippy (I'm not sure of that spelling), from the Methodist Church in Glasgow. Mom made arrangements with him that he would come to our house to baptize us kids! We had nothing to say about it! On the appointed day he came, and the baptismal service proceeded. I'm not certain, but I think my brother, Robert, and sister, Jean, accepted the sacrament (sprinkling, of course) without protest. But I was having none of it! When my turn was coming, I crawled under our big semi-grand piano, and wound my arms around one of the big carved back legs. They had to drag me out by "main strength and awkwardness," as the old saying goes. Despite my strong objections, both verbal and physical, I was baptized then and there. I know my mother meant well, but it just didn't appeal to me! And I don't think it "took."
Also during those years Mom followed her practice of reading to us when we went to bed at night. Instead of reading Mother Goose or similar stuff, she read to us from Hurlbut's Stories of the Bible. One story a night, no more, no less. When she had read all through the book, she would ask us what we wanted her to read next. We always asked for the Bible stories, and so heard them over and over again. Although they weren't direct quotes from the Bible, we all remembered the stories, and understood most of the relationships of the heroes and heroines of the Bible. Years later, when I came to know Jesus as my Savior and Lord, that basic knowledge of the Bible stories helped me a great deal to quickly become acquainted with the Bible itself. When I was old enough to understand a bit more, I really enjoyed and looked forward to Sunday School and church services at Richter School. Another Methodist minister used to come out several times during the summer months, when the roads were open. His name was Will LeDrew Bennett. He had become a minister sometime in middle life. He had been born and reared in Nova Scotia, or in that area of Canada, and had been a sailor on the open seas. He could tell such stories of storms and waves, I could literally see them. One story he told was of a time when in a terrible storm his sister had been swept overboard, but was rescued by someone catching her by her long hair just as she was sinking beneath the waves.
If the truth were known, though, my greatest fascination with Rev. Bennett was his English wife. She was a rather thin, tense looking woman, with large bulging eyes, probably due to some thyroid trouble. We kids thought that was funny, little beasts that we were. But what was funniest about Mrs. Bennett was her pronunciation of common words. Early on we discovered this odd pronunciation when she was singing the hymn "Oh Happy Day." She sang loud and clear "Oh hoppy die, oh hoppy die," and it would send us kids into fits of giggling. Thus when we were given a choice of songs to sing, if Mrs. Bennett was there, we kids chose "Oh Happy Day," every time.
The first Sunday School teacher that I can remember was John Betz, an old time rancher who lived about five miles south of our place. He and Mrs. Betz, and two youths, their son, Paul, and a nephew whose name I can't recall, would all come to Sunday School in good weather in their beautiful Whippet sedan car. It was by far the fanciest car in the whole area. Paul also owned, or at least drove, a Chevrolet "bug." A "bug" was a cut-down car, stripped of fenders and the normal running boards, etc., designed to look like the racing cars of that time in history. Needless to say, the owning of a bug became the dream of all of us boys.
Most of the rest of us drove teams to church; some came in buggies, pulled by one horse. The lane in front of the school house would be full, sometimes, of horses and wagons, and a few cars. This was in the late 1920's, when only a few folks could afford to have a car. Our family often walked to Sunday School, if the weather was good and the ground dry. When at last we acquired a Ford, we usually went to Sunday School and church in it.
I can remember one very special Sunday--it was April lst, my little sister Mary's birthday, and also Easter Sunday. Dad drove the team that day, fortunately. As we came over the hill down to John Goodmanson's, we saw that there was a prairie fire burning across the section of open prairie south-east of John Goodmanson's. It had started, we learned later, from the burning of an old straw stack on the Richter place, and had jumped the road and was running wild. By the time we got there and got into the business of fighting the fire, quite a few folks had arrived. All were dressed in their Sunday best, and, believe me, that is not the right dress for fighting prairie fire. Someone, I think it was the Roy Richter's, brought a wagon with a barrel of water and a bunch of burlap feed sacks. Most of us fought the fire with sacks dipped in the water. We got it out alright, but you should have seen the folks in Sunday School that morning! We were not fit for an Easter parade, for sure.
Another man who helped a good deal with that little Sunday School was Ben See, a farmer-rancher who lived about eight or ten miles away, down towards Hinsdale, and who drove up each Sunday. He was "Superintendent," I guess--he led the singing and all. He had a big Dodge touring car, and one time took all of us Cummings to their place for Sunday dinner. The weather was cold and windy, so he put up the top and side curtains. The latter were made of celluloid, or maybe something called eisenglass--a sort of flexible imitation glass, one of the forerunners of modern plastics. I remember that I was riding in the back seat, and it was very cold and drafty back there.
Mrs. See had fixed a fine dinner, and we got acquainted with their two children, Calvin and Marian, that day. I don't think Mr. See's children usually came to our Sunday School, for some reason. Mr. See was a fine man, and I wish now that I had known him better. Mrs. See was a nurse, and was a good neighbor, and a big help to the doctor in Hinsdale, Dr. Cockrell.
When my brother, Robert, was ready to start high school, Mr. See offered to have Robert stay with them, to do chores for his board and room, and go in to Hinsdale to school from their place, about five miles out of town. I think maybe Robert wasn't too enthusiastic about the chores part of the deal, but it gave him a chance to go on to high school. Also, he became what was surely one of the youngest school bus drivers in history. Mr. See let him drive that big Dodge car, taking the See kids, and the youngsters from a near-by farm, back and forth each day. So far as I know, he never had an accident of any kind.
Some time later, maybe the following summer, Marian See came to our house to stay while we all were having Vacation Bible School. She was a spoiled sissy type, we came to think. One evening she and my two sisters were riding our patient old work horse, Babe, and they happened to pass under the clothesline. They were riding bareback, and the line swept them all off onto the hard ground. Marian landed on top of the others, so really didn't have as bad a fall as did Jean and Mary, but I remember she bawled half the night, and wanted to go home. In later years she became a nurse and a fine worker, and a good friend.
Vacation Bible School was a treat to us every summer. My older sister, Jean, and I were able to memorize Scripture verses very easily, and in the two week's duration of the school, would learn and could recite as many as one hundred verses. Of course, from year to year we kept track of the good short ones--"Jesus wept," "pray without ceasing," and so on, and would only need to review those to be ready to recite again. We enjoyed competing with each other, to see who could recite the most verses. We learned a lot of the Bible in that way, but not really in any connected fashion.
Usually at the end of VBS, we would put on some sort of play or program to show off our accomplishments. I remember that one year we had that program at the Betz' ranch. I had some sort of role as a mighty warrior-- maybe I was David, I don't really know--and in the little play had to drink a cup of wine. Now no one in that community drank wine (though some might have indulged at times in moon-shine, if they could get it!) and the ladies were hard pressed to come up with a red liquid. I expected something good to drink, maybe strawberry pop, and when the time came tipped up the glass and gulped away. Do you know what it was? It was the juice drained from home canned beets! Terrible stuff! I was sorely hurt and offended, and didn't forget that for a long time, as you can see!
We had another activity at home, which helped to lay the foundation for my later life as a Christian. We three older children had to help not only with the outside chores, but also take our turn at helping with dishes. Often one of us would read to the other two as they did dishes. But sometimes we sang together. Our mother was an excellent musician, and must have had what they call "perfect pitch," as she could sing any harmony part without reference to printed music--she could simply "hear it," she would say. Anyway, she taught us to sing Christmas songs and other hymns, in parts, while we were doing dishes. Both Robert and I seemed to have a natural inclination to the bass harmony (I'm sure because it is the easiest), Jean sang the soprano, and Mother the alto.
Later, when our little sister Mary was big enough to sing with us, she, too, could sing any harmony; in fact, she possibly had even greater natural musical talent than Mom. She could hear a tune on a phonograph (or later on the radio) once, and sit down and immediately be able to play it on the piano, using both hands. I have met other persons who could do this, but no one who could do it so well and so quickly as Mary could. Singing those songs, memorizing the words and tunes, has helped me all through life.
One summer, I think maybe in 1929 or so, we had a new teacher for our Vacation Bible School, a tall young lady from somewhere in Minnesota. Our American Sunday School missionary then was the Reverend Blythe H. McLean. He was the one who arranged for teachers to come out to conduct Bible schools all over his territory. This year was special, though, because Rev. McLean seemed to come by every day or so, to help, see how things were going, and so on, at our school. What we kids didn't recognize was that this was a case of love, for at the end of that summer he and the new teacher were married! The McLeans were dear friends of our family for many years. A great many years later, when we moved to Spokane, in 1964, I found that Rev. McLean lived in Spokane, and was still active in the Lord's work. He retired soon after that, and lived for years in Couer d'Alene, Idaho. He was a fine man in every way.
I plan to come back to this subject in a later chapter, in stories of my life after we left the homestead. Now, my readers–has this yarn helped you remember something in your early life? Why not add a comment about that? I would really enjoy reading what you write! In a very real sense, bloggers like me live on comments! I’m fairly starved!
Monday, January 26, 2009
Thursday, January 15, 2009
HOMESTEAD DOGS
Dogs were very important to us on the homestead. A good watch dog served to keep coyotes away, and let us know when visitors were approaching, perhaps neighbors passing by or coming to visit, or lone riders who sometimes stopped to water their thirsty horses.
Our first dog was Smutz. Dad had rescued him from being drowned by some boys who were doing away with a batch of puppies. Dad came by just as the boys were putting the pups in a sack, intending to drown them all. Dad brought one little puppy home, and my parents named him Smutz. He was an odd little mutt, with long streaked gray and black hair which hung down and almost covered his eyes. He had a very short drooping tail, so that until he moved you could scarcely tell which end of him was which.
He was a fair watchdog, very vocal, but otherwise he didn't amount to much. We kids liked him, I suppose, though he was cranky and didn't like much petting. He was not good with the livestock, as he usually went to their heads, instead of the heels, when trying to drive them. He was a mortal enemy of Billy, the useless horse. When Billy would come trotting down the lane to get water, Smutz would dash out and chase Billy, on some occasions managing to set his teeth in old Billy's long tail. He would hang on like grim death, and go for a wild ride, being dragged, sometimes kicked half silly, and generally abused. He always recovered from those episodes, though we all thought he would surely be killed sooner or later.
We kids weren't very sorry when Momma decided to trade Smutz to Mrs. Stack, wife of our rural mail carrier. Mrs. Stack was a full-blooded Indian woman; they lived then in the old James place about a mile and a half from our house. Mrs. Stack made very nice rugs, and my mother was a good friend of the Stacks. One day Momma announced she had traded Smutz for a rug! Since the distance he had been taken was not great, it wasn't long before Smutz came home. They came and got him, and he never returned again. We kids thought maybe Smutz had been eaten, simply because the Stacks were Indian people. Of course, now I doubt that that was what happened to old Smutz, but we never did see him again.
Next we got Jack, a "scrub" collie--that is he wasn't born of fancy registered parents--but he was a great old typical Scotch collie in color--brown and snowy white, with a broad white neck- band, small white feet, and a wonderful disposition. He was given to us by the Betz family, probably soon after the departure of Smutz. He was such a fine dog, brave when facing threatening animals or strangers, yet so gentle little children could crawl all over him, and he would just look pleased.
Dad trained him to help with the cattle. He was a natural "heeler"--that is, he knew how to drive livestock, going to their heels, nipping here and there to encourage them to move. Most of what I know about Jack is what I have heard from my parents. I was quite small when one day Matt James and another man came by our place, on horseback. It was winter time, and Matt wanted our Dad to know that he planned to shoot a stray range horse out on the range about a mile from our place, and put poison in the carcase to kill coyotes. That wasn't unusual, and Dad thought it would be far enough from our place to not pose any problem for us, so he agreed.
I don't know how long it was after that--probably only a few days--when one cold morning Jack was missing! Then Dad came in from the barn and told us that Jack was lying down by the barn, dead of poisoning. He evidently had gone off to look at that dead horse, had gotten some of the poison, and then headed for home. But it was too far, and he died there, a terrible death from strychnine. I can remember vividly how angry Robert and I were, sitting there at the breakfast table. I think we all vowed that never again would coyote poisoners be allowed to put out that terrible stuff so near our place. Oddly, I don't remember that we were particularly angry at Matt James; probably we thought of him as a valued neighbor, rather than as a poisoner. I do know that all the neighbors around felt bad about Jack's death, for he was a very good dog.
The following summer we got another little collie pup from the Betzes. He was round and rolly-poly, and full of fun. But we were not to have him long. About that time Momma was on the warpath against the mice which were giving us a bad time in the house. She had purchased some rat poison, mixed it with some lard, and placed it around the house at various points. You can guess what happened! One day the new puppy got into some of that poison, and died under the house in agony. All our efforts to help him failed. I needn't tell you that Momma stopped using poison on mice!
We named the next collie pup we got from the Betzes Laddie. He wasn't marked or long- nosed quite like the typical collie. This dog was dark brown, with a white collar, and was gener- ally heavier in the shoulders than the usual collie. From the time he was very young he showed a lot of individualism and personality. He was easily trained to do different things, though, and was a very good stock dog.
While Laddie was still quite young, Dad trained him to go up into the pasture and bring the cows home. (We sometimes pastured the cows in the horse pasture, when there was enough grass for them.) As our house was below the level of the hill just to the west, Laddie was unable to see the cows when he was ordered to go bring them in. So he would gallop up the hill, and begin looking for the cattle. He loved to do this, and would bring the cows home at a nice easy walk, as if he understood that cows shouldn't be hurried when their udders were full of milk.
There was only one trouble--Laddie enjoyed so much bringing the cows home that he would sometimes go out and do it on his own. As a result, he had to be broken of that habit! He seemed to have an internal clock as he would come every day to meet us on our way home from school. How we loved that! He was very playful, would dash in circles around us, just out of reach. Robert and I would sometimes pretend to be fighting. Immediately Laddie would get in between us, letting us know he wouldn't stand for that!
Laddie seldom got to see any wildlife except jackrabbits and an occasional skunk. He chased jackrabbits to his heart's content, running them for miles, then coming home empty-handed, but happy. He always enjoyed that, though I doubt that he ever caught a healthy rabbit. Strangely, he didn't bother our tame rabbits or chickens. Sometimes in cold weather we would see Laddie curled up out of doors, with a cat or two snuggled up against him for warmth. He and all the pets slept out-of-doors, regardless of the weather.
Skunks were a different matter! I don't suppose you have ever had a chance to see a skunk out in the wild, or especially when challenged by a dog, have you? Skunks have strong wills and are not easily bluffed. When threatened, a skunk will not run, but will stand facing whatever it is threatening him, and will jump up and down a few times with his front feet, as if to make his opponent back up. That's a clear signal for us humans that the time has come to back off, for the skunk's next move is to let go with his nasty spray.
However, that bluff didn't work with Laddie! He seemed to have the idea that he had been chosen to destroy all skunks. After a few preliminary barks, Laddie would dash in, grab the skunk any way he could and shake the daylights out of it. More than once I have seen him do that, shaking the skunk so fiercely it appeared that Laddie had a black and white collar, with the spray from skunk making a strange greenish haze or halo around them.
Laddie wouldn't let go until the skunk was dead, but, oh, what a price he (and we) paid! He would be sick to his stomach, his eyes would burn so he had scarcely see, and he smelled so bad we would have nothing to do with him until the smell had worn off a bit after a few days. Once after such a duel with a skunk, I saw Laddie take a running jump into the water of the creek, as if knowing that would help his eyes.
Laddie never got over that business of attacking skunks! We often wish sincerely that he would leave them alone. Of course, skunks were not very plentiful, so Laddie didn't get smelled up more than once or twice a year. In case you haven't observed this, a dog carrying skunk scent carries it a very long time, and any wetting, from swimming or rain, brings it back fresh and strong! I don't recall that we ever, ever attempted to give Laddie a bath. In those days farmers just didn't bathe their dogs.
Old Laddie loved to go along whenever we took the team and wagon, or rode old Snip, the saddle horse. He would trot alongside of us, looking up now and then with a big grin on his face, happy as a lark. We seldom denied him the right to go along, as he gave us a certain sense of security, especially when we kids went after the cows or were going to town with the wagon.
Laddie was never hesitant about a fight any dog who might challenge him, and I never knew him to run from a fight. He was very strong and quick, and gave more than one dog a sore foot. Exactly as I had read about collie dogs and the way they fight, Laddie would go for the feet of his opponent, biting them severely, and that often ended the fight almost before it was well started.
(Though I'm not finished with the story of Laddie, I must leave it for another chapter in this blog!)
Dogs were very important to us on the homestead. A good watch dog served to keep coyotes away, and let us know when visitors were approaching, perhaps neighbors passing by or coming to visit, or lone riders who sometimes stopped to water their thirsty horses.
Our first dog was Smutz. Dad had rescued him from being drowned by some boys who were doing away with a batch of puppies. Dad came by just as the boys were putting the pups in a sack, intending to drown them all. Dad brought one little puppy home, and my parents named him Smutz. He was an odd little mutt, with long streaked gray and black hair which hung down and almost covered his eyes. He had a very short drooping tail, so that until he moved you could scarcely tell which end of him was which.
He was a fair watchdog, very vocal, but otherwise he didn't amount to much. We kids liked him, I suppose, though he was cranky and didn't like much petting. He was not good with the livestock, as he usually went to their heads, instead of the heels, when trying to drive them. He was a mortal enemy of Billy, the useless horse. When Billy would come trotting down the lane to get water, Smutz would dash out and chase Billy, on some occasions managing to set his teeth in old Billy's long tail. He would hang on like grim death, and go for a wild ride, being dragged, sometimes kicked half silly, and generally abused. He always recovered from those episodes, though we all thought he would surely be killed sooner or later.
We kids weren't very sorry when Momma decided to trade Smutz to Mrs. Stack, wife of our rural mail carrier. Mrs. Stack was a full-blooded Indian woman; they lived then in the old James place about a mile and a half from our house. Mrs. Stack made very nice rugs, and my mother was a good friend of the Stacks. One day Momma announced she had traded Smutz for a rug! Since the distance he had been taken was not great, it wasn't long before Smutz came home. They came and got him, and he never returned again. We kids thought maybe Smutz had been eaten, simply because the Stacks were Indian people. Of course, now I doubt that that was what happened to old Smutz, but we never did see him again.
Next we got Jack, a "scrub" collie--that is he wasn't born of fancy registered parents--but he was a great old typical Scotch collie in color--brown and snowy white, with a broad white neck- band, small white feet, and a wonderful disposition. He was given to us by the Betz family, probably soon after the departure of Smutz. He was such a fine dog, brave when facing threatening animals or strangers, yet so gentle little children could crawl all over him, and he would just look pleased.
Dad trained him to help with the cattle. He was a natural "heeler"--that is, he knew how to drive livestock, going to their heels, nipping here and there to encourage them to move. Most of what I know about Jack is what I have heard from my parents. I was quite small when one day Matt James and another man came by our place, on horseback. It was winter time, and Matt wanted our Dad to know that he planned to shoot a stray range horse out on the range about a mile from our place, and put poison in the carcase to kill coyotes. That wasn't unusual, and Dad thought it would be far enough from our place to not pose any problem for us, so he agreed.
I don't know how long it was after that--probably only a few days--when one cold morning Jack was missing! Then Dad came in from the barn and told us that Jack was lying down by the barn, dead of poisoning. He evidently had gone off to look at that dead horse, had gotten some of the poison, and then headed for home. But it was too far, and he died there, a terrible death from strychnine. I can remember vividly how angry Robert and I were, sitting there at the breakfast table. I think we all vowed that never again would coyote poisoners be allowed to put out that terrible stuff so near our place. Oddly, I don't remember that we were particularly angry at Matt James; probably we thought of him as a valued neighbor, rather than as a poisoner. I do know that all the neighbors around felt bad about Jack's death, for he was a very good dog.
The following summer we got another little collie pup from the Betzes. He was round and rolly-poly, and full of fun. But we were not to have him long. About that time Momma was on the warpath against the mice which were giving us a bad time in the house. She had purchased some rat poison, mixed it with some lard, and placed it around the house at various points. You can guess what happened! One day the new puppy got into some of that poison, and died under the house in agony. All our efforts to help him failed. I needn't tell you that Momma stopped using poison on mice!
We named the next collie pup we got from the Betzes Laddie. He wasn't marked or long- nosed quite like the typical collie. This dog was dark brown, with a white collar, and was gener- ally heavier in the shoulders than the usual collie. From the time he was very young he showed a lot of individualism and personality. He was easily trained to do different things, though, and was a very good stock dog.
While Laddie was still quite young, Dad trained him to go up into the pasture and bring the cows home. (We sometimes pastured the cows in the horse pasture, when there was enough grass for them.) As our house was below the level of the hill just to the west, Laddie was unable to see the cows when he was ordered to go bring them in. So he would gallop up the hill, and begin looking for the cattle. He loved to do this, and would bring the cows home at a nice easy walk, as if he understood that cows shouldn't be hurried when their udders were full of milk.
There was only one trouble--Laddie enjoyed so much bringing the cows home that he would sometimes go out and do it on his own. As a result, he had to be broken of that habit! He seemed to have an internal clock as he would come every day to meet us on our way home from school. How we loved that! He was very playful, would dash in circles around us, just out of reach. Robert and I would sometimes pretend to be fighting. Immediately Laddie would get in between us, letting us know he wouldn't stand for that!
Laddie seldom got to see any wildlife except jackrabbits and an occasional skunk. He chased jackrabbits to his heart's content, running them for miles, then coming home empty-handed, but happy. He always enjoyed that, though I doubt that he ever caught a healthy rabbit. Strangely, he didn't bother our tame rabbits or chickens. Sometimes in cold weather we would see Laddie curled up out of doors, with a cat or two snuggled up against him for warmth. He and all the pets slept out-of-doors, regardless of the weather.
Skunks were a different matter! I don't suppose you have ever had a chance to see a skunk out in the wild, or especially when challenged by a dog, have you? Skunks have strong wills and are not easily bluffed. When threatened, a skunk will not run, but will stand facing whatever it is threatening him, and will jump up and down a few times with his front feet, as if to make his opponent back up. That's a clear signal for us humans that the time has come to back off, for the skunk's next move is to let go with his nasty spray.
However, that bluff didn't work with Laddie! He seemed to have the idea that he had been chosen to destroy all skunks. After a few preliminary barks, Laddie would dash in, grab the skunk any way he could and shake the daylights out of it. More than once I have seen him do that, shaking the skunk so fiercely it appeared that Laddie had a black and white collar, with the spray from skunk making a strange greenish haze or halo around them.
Laddie wouldn't let go until the skunk was dead, but, oh, what a price he (and we) paid! He would be sick to his stomach, his eyes would burn so he had scarcely see, and he smelled so bad we would have nothing to do with him until the smell had worn off a bit after a few days. Once after such a duel with a skunk, I saw Laddie take a running jump into the water of the creek, as if knowing that would help his eyes.
Laddie never got over that business of attacking skunks! We often wish sincerely that he would leave them alone. Of course, skunks were not very plentiful, so Laddie didn't get smelled up more than once or twice a year. In case you haven't observed this, a dog carrying skunk scent carries it a very long time, and any wetting, from swimming or rain, brings it back fresh and strong! I don't recall that we ever, ever attempted to give Laddie a bath. In those days farmers just didn't bathe their dogs.
Old Laddie loved to go along whenever we took the team and wagon, or rode old Snip, the saddle horse. He would trot alongside of us, looking up now and then with a big grin on his face, happy as a lark. We seldom denied him the right to go along, as he gave us a certain sense of security, especially when we kids went after the cows or were going to town with the wagon.
Laddie was never hesitant about a fight any dog who might challenge him, and I never knew him to run from a fight. He was very strong and quick, and gave more than one dog a sore foot. Exactly as I had read about collie dogs and the way they fight, Laddie would go for the feet of his opponent, biting them severely, and that often ended the fight almost before it was well started.
(Though I'm not finished with the story of Laddie, I must leave it for another chapter in this blog!)
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Please forgive my giving at the end of the latest blog details of the harsh realities of killing turkeys! I stand corrected! But I must say that an important, though often unpleasant, part of life on the homestead involved the death of animals. Most of us eat meat purchased in the market without giving a moment’s thought to the death of the creature involved. Let’s go on!
When I was in about the fourth grade, Ralph Carter gave me what I thought was a most desirable gift--a pair of tame rabbits. The Carters had lots of animals, sheep and horses and cattle, and pigeons, too. But the animals I liked best when I went to visit Ralph were the rabbits. They kept a smallish variety, the adults about the size of a cottontail, but cloaked in a pretty, soft, brown fur. The Carters kept them in small pens, with wire mesh screen in the bottom. What did they do with them? They ate them! Tame rabbits are much better eating than the wild kind, who develop toughness with all their exercise. Up to the day Ralph gave me the pair of rabbits, the Carters were the only folks in the community who raised tame rabbits.
I failed to consult my parents before bringing that pair of rabbits home from school, where Ralph had brought them. They were in a little cage, which we set up in the back yard, behind the house. Of course Mom had real reservations about having rabbits, but I was allowed to keep them. We knew absolutely nothing about raising rabbits, and simply fed them the same as the chickens-- some mash and grain each day. My sisters and I would also bring them handfuls of green grass, when we could find some.
Naturally I don't remember just how much time elapsed, but those rabbits were better at arithmetic than I was--at least at multiplication! Soon we had several cages of rabbits, and more to come! You can probably guess what happened--one day some got out of their cages and there was no chance of catching them. So we just let the rest of them go, too.
It wasn't long until we had little brown rabbits all around the place, down around the barn, making their nests under part of the house, and in the woodpile. We had lots of rabbits. We did eat a few, though never very many. It was an odd sight to see those rabbits come running when we called the chickens for their food! They would come scurrying from all directions, like a brown wave mixed in among our white chickens.
I remember that one day Robert and I discovered several dead rabbits down near the well, when we went for water. Their bodies were still warm, and for a few minutes we couldn't figure out what had happened to them. Then Robert discovered a weasel watching us from the far bank of the creek. That explained the dead rabbits! The weasel had been killing them, and drinking their blood. Robert ran to the house for the .22 rifle, and Mr. Weasel was soon put out of this world.
We knew it was wasteful to feed all those rabbits, but we kids liked them, even though we never made real pets of any of them. Years later, after we had left the old homestead, some of our old neighbors told us that there were still little brown rabbits living around the old place. There were none to be seen in 1946, though, when we went out there to see the old place, after WWII.
We also had some white mice once. I think Vernon Richter was the one who gave me that start in livestock raising. Like the rabbits, the mice were once just two, then more, and more, and more. We only had them around for a short time, though. Mom decided something must be done quickly, and made a plan to execute the whole bunch at once, with chloroform.
I remember how that plan was to work: we put all the mice into a big wash tub, where they couldn't get out. Then a wad of cotton or a rag, I don't recall which, was saturated with chloroform, and dropped into the tub, and the whole thing covered up to make it air tight. It didn't take long for them all to become unconscious, if not dead, and then Dad took them up on the side of the hill, dug a hole, and buried them all in a mass grave. I really felt little concern for them, as I hadn't especially liked them, anyway, and Mom was greatly relieved. We did speculate a little as to whether they had been dead, or just under anesthesia! At least none of them dug themselves out!
Then we had cats, cats, and more cats. My sisters, Jean and Mary, always loved cats, and it was very difficult to get rid of any extra cats, particularly when they were just little kittens. So there were always quite a few cats running around the place. Some would be around the barn or barnyard when we milked, and enjoyed getting a squirt of fresh milk direct from cow to cat. Of course, they didn't catch all the milk squirted at them; it got all over them, but they could lick that off easily enough.
You would think, wouldn't you, that the cats would have eaten the rabbits? Well, they tried, and I suppose they did get some of the little ones at times. But you should have seen how those adult rabbits could handle a cat! If a cat came near a nest of young rabbits, the adults would run right at the cat, jump over it, and give the cat a ferocious kick with both hind feet as the rabbit went by overhead. Even a large cat would be tumbled head over heels with such an attack. The cats quickly learned that it was not safe to be around rabbits that acted like that!
We did have some trouble with the cats catching and eating little chickens. After hatching the chicks in an incubator in the cellar, they were put outside in a little shelter, with a "run" covered with chicken wire. Sometimes hawks would swoop down and try to catch one, but the wire protected them.
One day one of the cats was out there, reaching down through the wire mesh, trying to catch a chick. Mom saw it out there, grabbed up the broom, and ran out to drive it away. She may have intended only to scare the cat, but her aim with the broom was too good, and she broke its back! We then had to put the poor thing out of its misery. Mom felt awfully bad about that, but we kids sometimes teased her a little about being so deadly with a broom!
Every once in a while, Dad would decide (with some encouragement from Robert and me) that there were just too many blooming cats around, and we would have an extermination campaign. On one such occasion, Robert used the .22 to do away with several of them, despite the screaming objections of the girls. The poor cats hadn't done anything to deserve death, but we had to get rid of the surplus, as we saw it.
I've just read back over some of the above, and realize how blood-thirsty I must sound! It would be nice, I suppose, to think of animals and turkeys and chickens just living peacefully forever, but that was not the way it was on the homestead. Death was a very important part of managing animals, and we boys, at least, grew up with that understanding. We never wanted to be cruel to animals, but we could shoot a cat, or kill a rabbit to eat, or chop off a chicken's head, without a qualm. In all our killing of animals we tried to inflict a quick and painless death, and truly felt bad when that didn't happen.
Now that I've said that, I see at once that we didn't always feel so casual about the death of dogs and horses. Cows and sheep and pigs could come and go, but horses were lasting, and dogs were friends, even considered a real part of the family.
When Dad and Mom first came to the homestead, they purchased a team of two mares, for use on the farm. I don't remember one of those mares, but I do remember the second one, who was still alive and working when I was small. Her name was Babe, and she had had a series of colts. Babe was a gentle old horse, slow as molasses in a cold winter, but willing to work some if forced to. We could ride her, and she was our first and only saddle horse for quite a while. But she wasn't a comfortable horse to ride, because she had a very broad back and wide rib cage, and could seldom be coaxed into even a trot, let alone a gallop.
I think Dad had kept only one of her sons, or if she had produced any other males, I don't know of them. But one was enough! His name was Billy; he was a truly handsome horse, a beautiful chestnut in color, with a white blaze on his face, and long streaming mane and tail. You see, Billy didn't have to work; he just lived a life of ease and ornriness. When he was old enough to break for work in harness, somehow in the breaking process he injured a muscle in his shoulder (this was called a sweeney, I think), and could never pull after that.
Billy was kept with the work horses, so was frequently around the barn. He drank water by the barrel, or so it seemed to me, for I often had to pump for him. He loved to come trotting down the hill from the pasture, down the lane in front of the house, kicking at old Smutz the dog if Smutz came out to challenge him, and letting his innards make the peculiar hollow sound that only a horse can achieve as he trotted. I guess he was gentle, though I once saw him kick with both feet at Dad when Dad walked behind him. Fortunately, he missed!
When we moved off the homestead in the fall of 1932, old Billy was brought along with the other livestock to our new home on Milk River. But he was a fence crawler from away back, and didn't stay long. He crawled the necessary fences, and took off back to the homestead. Did you know that horses can do that--go back to their home, just as a dog or cat might do? Well, Billy did it. I remember we had to go bring him back more than once, but finally we just let him go to fend for himself, on the open range. We never saw him again.
Beside our working team, the mares Nell and Frolic, we had quite a few other horses which had for years been allowed to run on the open range. Every year, or maybe it was every two years, we would try to round them up, and with the help of neighbors, do the necessary branding of the colts, and castrating of the males.
I recall one such roundup, when we had gotten permission from the James family to use their corral to hold the horses for branding. Several of the neighbor men, mounted on good horses, had rounded up the range bunch, and gotten them into the corral. I was quite small, but old enough to watch from the corral fence, and was greatly excited by the swirling mob of horses circling in the corral. One mare, a strawberry roan, was considered "mine." You see, Dad had given each of us kids one mare out of the bunch on the range to call our own. My mare was the recognized leader of the whole bunch, and I was very proud of her. She had had a number of mare colts, and was then a "grandmare" or grandmother, whichever you like.
I don't remember that mare's name, but she was surely a wild one. As I watched, she got as long a run as she could, and sailed out of that corral as if on wings! Others tried it, but she was the only one who got away. Some years later that same mare, a beautiful animal, managed to throw and drag a broncho-buster whom Dad had hired to break some of our wild bunch for riding.
He was working the bunch alone on the prairie, or range, several miles east of our place, living in an old abandoned homesteader’s shack. Apparently one morning he didn't even do his breakfast dishes, but went out to ride that mare, right after breakfast. No one was there to see, but she either threw him, or the saddle turned. His foot must have caught in the stirrup, and he was dragged to death. When he was found by accident some days later, he had been dead for quite a while. The mare was standing around, with the saddle hanging upside down under her belly. That ended the breaking of our range horses for riding!
In the spring of 1932, a horse-buyer came through the homestead country, offering to buy up range horses for hog food! We were so proud of our Dad! He needed cash badly, but he refused to sell horses for $2 a head, which was what the man offered, to be slaughtered and processed as hog food. So when we left the homestead that fall, we just left the range horses to continue their wild life on the range. A few years later, someone told us that he had seen our "bunch," still out on the range, and apparently doing well.
In those days there were lots of "wild" horses on the range. Nearly every day when going after the cows we would see a bunch or two, their long, untrimmed tails flying out behind them as they ran. They were all very wary of humans, even of little boys and girls on foot, as we usually were. Many of those wild horses had marks on them from saddle sores, or harness burns. Those old horses had probably done a life-time's work before being turned out on the range to die. But there were lots of younger horses, too, which had never been broken to ride or work.
Also, we sometimes saw a wild stallion, a big black fellow who was a pacer (he swung both legs on one side forward at the same time, then the others on his other side, etc.). That was considered a desirable smooth-riding gait, and we admired him very much.
Our favorite horse was old Snip, though for the life of me I can't recall how we came to have him at our place. Dad must have bought him or traded a cow for him, or something like that. He was no youngster, but was lively and quick on his feet, and smarter than most horses, I'm convinced. We thought he was a mustang; he was small and wiry, with small hoofs.
At that time (and on through all our farming days) we had only one saddle--an ancient army McLellan cavalry saddle, named after the famous Civil War General. It had been designed for and used by the U. S. Cavalry from the Civil War days on. I think Dad bought it when he first came to the homestead. It was terribly uncomfortable to ride on, and we boys were thoroughly ashamed of it. It didn't have a horn, so there was no place to anchor a lariat--not that we ever were good enough with a rope to catch anything from the horse's back! But that saddle did have lots of convenient rings and loops and hooks on which things could be tied, and was much better in that respect than the usual stock saddle.
Maybe Snip resented that light little saddle just as much as I did! We soon found that he couldn't be trusted, in a lot of ways. I've told in another chapter of his little trick of letting on everything was alright, when first starting out on a ride, and then suddenly bucking when about a half mile from home. He dumped me more than once.
Also, he would hold his breath, expanding his middle to the utmost when we were tightening the cinch straps. Then, when someone was ready to mount, he would let his breath out, and the saddle would slip around under his belly! Very neat! We learned to get around him on that trick, too, by giving him a sharp jab with a knee when about to buckle the cinch strap. He would grunt and let his wind go, and we could then get the strap another notch tighter.
But Snip was very useful to us, and we rode him many, many miles, after the cows, to round up the horses, sometimes (rarely) to school, even down to the Milk River to fish a time or two. He could be used in harness, too, though he was a bit light for that.
How I wish I knew his full history! Once when our neighbor, Charlie Carter, was at our place, he went over to old Snip, looked him over carefully, then announced that he was sure that Snip was the same horse he had once seen working deep in a coal mine, years before. If that was so, we never really knew. Maybe Snip was thankful to be out in the open air again!
Old Snip died all alone one winter day, while pasturing in John Goodmanson's pasture south of our house. We hadn't seen him for a day or two, and I went looking for him. He had gone just as far as he could, a full mile from our place, and must simply have laid down and died there, weary, and old and cold. We kids grieved over him for days.
Nearly all of the farm work was done with our only team, Nellie and Frolic. I remember them so well! Frolic was black, with scarcely a white mark on her anywhere. She was the daughter of one of the first mares Dad had purchased when he started homesteading. She was a pretty good sized horse, at least in the eyes of a small boy like me. The thing I remember most about her was that she stepped on my foot once!
I was very small, barefooted (for it was summer), and was no doubt standing too near the horses. Anyway, as old Frolic stamped her feet to shake off the pestiferous flies bothering her, I managed to get my little bare foot under one of her hoofs! It came down hard, and she had no intention of moving it again, it seemed to me. There was no one near me to help, though I was uttering very loud cries of distress! I kicked at her leg with my good foot as hard as I could, but she wouldn't move! Finally, after a long time, or so it seemed to me, she lifted her foot and I could get away. My poor big toe was cut and bruised, and I lost that toe- nail as a result of the injury. I always held that against Frolic, I think.
The other mare, Nellie, was my favorite. She was a pretty sorrel in color, with black mane and tail. Nell was very frisky, and lighter in weight than Frolic, but was a good worker. For a long time Dad entertained ideas of having Nell broken to ride, but somehow that never came about. I guess she would let some people ride her, but none of us ventured to try it.
The two mares together caused more than a little trouble for us, as they were prone to run away! I don't think that ever happened out on the homestead, but when we moved to the Burke place, in 1932, they got the idea that a runaway would be fun. I remember the first one, which occurred not long after we moved there, probably in the next summer.
Dad had left them unattended for just a minute right in the farmyard of the place. They were hitched to our hayrack, as we had been putting up hay in the slough. Something triggered their move, and off they went on a dead run, first down the road a little way, then off across the sagebrush pasture land, the empty hayrack bouncing wildly behind them. Soon they came to a steep little hill, dropping down into the slough. They didn't hesitate a moment; down they plunged, the wagon and rack almost overtaking them. I suspect the noise of the bouncing rig behind them sort of helped to keep them going! All three of us--Dad, Robert, and I--were chasing after them, hollering "whoa, whoa" at the top of our lungs, but that didn't phase them one bit.
They continued on across the rough ground of the slough, across the alfalfa field, then took another turn and headed back across the slough! Dad, Robert, and I were still chasing them, but had fallen quite a long way behind. We didn't see exactly what happened, but we knew from the tracks they left. They chose to go between two big cottonwood trees, in the row of trees which bordered the slough at that point. There was a sharp dip of about eight feet there, and the rack must have been partly airborne, for they got through between those trees without the hayrack touching the trees on either side! Robert and I measured the distance between those trees later, and it was NOT wide enough for the rack to go through at ground level. Yet it made no mark on either tree! It was airborne!
On they dashed across the slough and headed into the woods. It happened that there was another large cottonwood tree there in front of them. I guess they didn't communicate well, because they tried to go on opposite sides of that tree, with bad results. When we finally got there, the two horses were still staggering around as if drunk. I think they had bumped heads on the far side of that tree! The tongue of the wagon had struck the tree, of course, and was shattered into splinters, but otherwise the rack was not damaged too badly, considering its wild ride! They were a pretty tame pair after that for a while.
Then one day while Robert was driving them hitched to the mower, cutting hay, they took off again. It may have been that they were stung by yellow-jackets or bumble bees. Thank goodness, Robert toppled off the seat backward, and not in front of the sickle! That pair cut a wide and woolly swath through the hayfield until they tired out, then simply stopped. No harm had been done,except that some hay had been cut rather poorly!
When I was in about the fourth grade, Ralph Carter gave me what I thought was a most desirable gift--a pair of tame rabbits. The Carters had lots of animals, sheep and horses and cattle, and pigeons, too. But the animals I liked best when I went to visit Ralph were the rabbits. They kept a smallish variety, the adults about the size of a cottontail, but cloaked in a pretty, soft, brown fur. The Carters kept them in small pens, with wire mesh screen in the bottom. What did they do with them? They ate them! Tame rabbits are much better eating than the wild kind, who develop toughness with all their exercise. Up to the day Ralph gave me the pair of rabbits, the Carters were the only folks in the community who raised tame rabbits.
I failed to consult my parents before bringing that pair of rabbits home from school, where Ralph had brought them. They were in a little cage, which we set up in the back yard, behind the house. Of course Mom had real reservations about having rabbits, but I was allowed to keep them. We knew absolutely nothing about raising rabbits, and simply fed them the same as the chickens-- some mash and grain each day. My sisters and I would also bring them handfuls of green grass, when we could find some.
Naturally I don't remember just how much time elapsed, but those rabbits were better at arithmetic than I was--at least at multiplication! Soon we had several cages of rabbits, and more to come! You can probably guess what happened--one day some got out of their cages and there was no chance of catching them. So we just let the rest of them go, too.
It wasn't long until we had little brown rabbits all around the place, down around the barn, making their nests under part of the house, and in the woodpile. We had lots of rabbits. We did eat a few, though never very many. It was an odd sight to see those rabbits come running when we called the chickens for their food! They would come scurrying from all directions, like a brown wave mixed in among our white chickens.
I remember that one day Robert and I discovered several dead rabbits down near the well, when we went for water. Their bodies were still warm, and for a few minutes we couldn't figure out what had happened to them. Then Robert discovered a weasel watching us from the far bank of the creek. That explained the dead rabbits! The weasel had been killing them, and drinking their blood. Robert ran to the house for the .22 rifle, and Mr. Weasel was soon put out of this world.
We knew it was wasteful to feed all those rabbits, but we kids liked them, even though we never made real pets of any of them. Years later, after we had left the old homestead, some of our old neighbors told us that there were still little brown rabbits living around the old place. There were none to be seen in 1946, though, when we went out there to see the old place, after WWII.
We also had some white mice once. I think Vernon Richter was the one who gave me that start in livestock raising. Like the rabbits, the mice were once just two, then more, and more, and more. We only had them around for a short time, though. Mom decided something must be done quickly, and made a plan to execute the whole bunch at once, with chloroform.
I remember how that plan was to work: we put all the mice into a big wash tub, where they couldn't get out. Then a wad of cotton or a rag, I don't recall which, was saturated with chloroform, and dropped into the tub, and the whole thing covered up to make it air tight. It didn't take long for them all to become unconscious, if not dead, and then Dad took them up on the side of the hill, dug a hole, and buried them all in a mass grave. I really felt little concern for them, as I hadn't especially liked them, anyway, and Mom was greatly relieved. We did speculate a little as to whether they had been dead, or just under anesthesia! At least none of them dug themselves out!
Then we had cats, cats, and more cats. My sisters, Jean and Mary, always loved cats, and it was very difficult to get rid of any extra cats, particularly when they were just little kittens. So there were always quite a few cats running around the place. Some would be around the barn or barnyard when we milked, and enjoyed getting a squirt of fresh milk direct from cow to cat. Of course, they didn't catch all the milk squirted at them; it got all over them, but they could lick that off easily enough.
You would think, wouldn't you, that the cats would have eaten the rabbits? Well, they tried, and I suppose they did get some of the little ones at times. But you should have seen how those adult rabbits could handle a cat! If a cat came near a nest of young rabbits, the adults would run right at the cat, jump over it, and give the cat a ferocious kick with both hind feet as the rabbit went by overhead. Even a large cat would be tumbled head over heels with such an attack. The cats quickly learned that it was not safe to be around rabbits that acted like that!
We did have some trouble with the cats catching and eating little chickens. After hatching the chicks in an incubator in the cellar, they were put outside in a little shelter, with a "run" covered with chicken wire. Sometimes hawks would swoop down and try to catch one, but the wire protected them.
One day one of the cats was out there, reaching down through the wire mesh, trying to catch a chick. Mom saw it out there, grabbed up the broom, and ran out to drive it away. She may have intended only to scare the cat, but her aim with the broom was too good, and she broke its back! We then had to put the poor thing out of its misery. Mom felt awfully bad about that, but we kids sometimes teased her a little about being so deadly with a broom!
Every once in a while, Dad would decide (with some encouragement from Robert and me) that there were just too many blooming cats around, and we would have an extermination campaign. On one such occasion, Robert used the .22 to do away with several of them, despite the screaming objections of the girls. The poor cats hadn't done anything to deserve death, but we had to get rid of the surplus, as we saw it.
I've just read back over some of the above, and realize how blood-thirsty I must sound! It would be nice, I suppose, to think of animals and turkeys and chickens just living peacefully forever, but that was not the way it was on the homestead. Death was a very important part of managing animals, and we boys, at least, grew up with that understanding. We never wanted to be cruel to animals, but we could shoot a cat, or kill a rabbit to eat, or chop off a chicken's head, without a qualm. In all our killing of animals we tried to inflict a quick and painless death, and truly felt bad when that didn't happen.
Now that I've said that, I see at once that we didn't always feel so casual about the death of dogs and horses. Cows and sheep and pigs could come and go, but horses were lasting, and dogs were friends, even considered a real part of the family.
When Dad and Mom first came to the homestead, they purchased a team of two mares, for use on the farm. I don't remember one of those mares, but I do remember the second one, who was still alive and working when I was small. Her name was Babe, and she had had a series of colts. Babe was a gentle old horse, slow as molasses in a cold winter, but willing to work some if forced to. We could ride her, and she was our first and only saddle horse for quite a while. But she wasn't a comfortable horse to ride, because she had a very broad back and wide rib cage, and could seldom be coaxed into even a trot, let alone a gallop.
I think Dad had kept only one of her sons, or if she had produced any other males, I don't know of them. But one was enough! His name was Billy; he was a truly handsome horse, a beautiful chestnut in color, with a white blaze on his face, and long streaming mane and tail. You see, Billy didn't have to work; he just lived a life of ease and ornriness. When he was old enough to break for work in harness, somehow in the breaking process he injured a muscle in his shoulder (this was called a sweeney, I think), and could never pull after that.
Billy was kept with the work horses, so was frequently around the barn. He drank water by the barrel, or so it seemed to me, for I often had to pump for him. He loved to come trotting down the hill from the pasture, down the lane in front of the house, kicking at old Smutz the dog if Smutz came out to challenge him, and letting his innards make the peculiar hollow sound that only a horse can achieve as he trotted. I guess he was gentle, though I once saw him kick with both feet at Dad when Dad walked behind him. Fortunately, he missed!
When we moved off the homestead in the fall of 1932, old Billy was brought along with the other livestock to our new home on Milk River. But he was a fence crawler from away back, and didn't stay long. He crawled the necessary fences, and took off back to the homestead. Did you know that horses can do that--go back to their home, just as a dog or cat might do? Well, Billy did it. I remember we had to go bring him back more than once, but finally we just let him go to fend for himself, on the open range. We never saw him again.
Beside our working team, the mares Nell and Frolic, we had quite a few other horses which had for years been allowed to run on the open range. Every year, or maybe it was every two years, we would try to round them up, and with the help of neighbors, do the necessary branding of the colts, and castrating of the males.
I recall one such roundup, when we had gotten permission from the James family to use their corral to hold the horses for branding. Several of the neighbor men, mounted on good horses, had rounded up the range bunch, and gotten them into the corral. I was quite small, but old enough to watch from the corral fence, and was greatly excited by the swirling mob of horses circling in the corral. One mare, a strawberry roan, was considered "mine." You see, Dad had given each of us kids one mare out of the bunch on the range to call our own. My mare was the recognized leader of the whole bunch, and I was very proud of her. She had had a number of mare colts, and was then a "grandmare" or grandmother, whichever you like.
I don't remember that mare's name, but she was surely a wild one. As I watched, she got as long a run as she could, and sailed out of that corral as if on wings! Others tried it, but she was the only one who got away. Some years later that same mare, a beautiful animal, managed to throw and drag a broncho-buster whom Dad had hired to break some of our wild bunch for riding.
He was working the bunch alone on the prairie, or range, several miles east of our place, living in an old abandoned homesteader’s shack. Apparently one morning he didn't even do his breakfast dishes, but went out to ride that mare, right after breakfast. No one was there to see, but she either threw him, or the saddle turned. His foot must have caught in the stirrup, and he was dragged to death. When he was found by accident some days later, he had been dead for quite a while. The mare was standing around, with the saddle hanging upside down under her belly. That ended the breaking of our range horses for riding!
In the spring of 1932, a horse-buyer came through the homestead country, offering to buy up range horses for hog food! We were so proud of our Dad! He needed cash badly, but he refused to sell horses for $2 a head, which was what the man offered, to be slaughtered and processed as hog food. So when we left the homestead that fall, we just left the range horses to continue their wild life on the range. A few years later, someone told us that he had seen our "bunch," still out on the range, and apparently doing well.
In those days there were lots of "wild" horses on the range. Nearly every day when going after the cows we would see a bunch or two, their long, untrimmed tails flying out behind them as they ran. They were all very wary of humans, even of little boys and girls on foot, as we usually were. Many of those wild horses had marks on them from saddle sores, or harness burns. Those old horses had probably done a life-time's work before being turned out on the range to die. But there were lots of younger horses, too, which had never been broken to ride or work.
Also, we sometimes saw a wild stallion, a big black fellow who was a pacer (he swung both legs on one side forward at the same time, then the others on his other side, etc.). That was considered a desirable smooth-riding gait, and we admired him very much.
Our favorite horse was old Snip, though for the life of me I can't recall how we came to have him at our place. Dad must have bought him or traded a cow for him, or something like that. He was no youngster, but was lively and quick on his feet, and smarter than most horses, I'm convinced. We thought he was a mustang; he was small and wiry, with small hoofs.
At that time (and on through all our farming days) we had only one saddle--an ancient army McLellan cavalry saddle, named after the famous Civil War General. It had been designed for and used by the U. S. Cavalry from the Civil War days on. I think Dad bought it when he first came to the homestead. It was terribly uncomfortable to ride on, and we boys were thoroughly ashamed of it. It didn't have a horn, so there was no place to anchor a lariat--not that we ever were good enough with a rope to catch anything from the horse's back! But that saddle did have lots of convenient rings and loops and hooks on which things could be tied, and was much better in that respect than the usual stock saddle.
Maybe Snip resented that light little saddle just as much as I did! We soon found that he couldn't be trusted, in a lot of ways. I've told in another chapter of his little trick of letting on everything was alright, when first starting out on a ride, and then suddenly bucking when about a half mile from home. He dumped me more than once.
Also, he would hold his breath, expanding his middle to the utmost when we were tightening the cinch straps. Then, when someone was ready to mount, he would let his breath out, and the saddle would slip around under his belly! Very neat! We learned to get around him on that trick, too, by giving him a sharp jab with a knee when about to buckle the cinch strap. He would grunt and let his wind go, and we could then get the strap another notch tighter.
But Snip was very useful to us, and we rode him many, many miles, after the cows, to round up the horses, sometimes (rarely) to school, even down to the Milk River to fish a time or two. He could be used in harness, too, though he was a bit light for that.
How I wish I knew his full history! Once when our neighbor, Charlie Carter, was at our place, he went over to old Snip, looked him over carefully, then announced that he was sure that Snip was the same horse he had once seen working deep in a coal mine, years before. If that was so, we never really knew. Maybe Snip was thankful to be out in the open air again!
Old Snip died all alone one winter day, while pasturing in John Goodmanson's pasture south of our house. We hadn't seen him for a day or two, and I went looking for him. He had gone just as far as he could, a full mile from our place, and must simply have laid down and died there, weary, and old and cold. We kids grieved over him for days.
Nearly all of the farm work was done with our only team, Nellie and Frolic. I remember them so well! Frolic was black, with scarcely a white mark on her anywhere. She was the daughter of one of the first mares Dad had purchased when he started homesteading. She was a pretty good sized horse, at least in the eyes of a small boy like me. The thing I remember most about her was that she stepped on my foot once!
I was very small, barefooted (for it was summer), and was no doubt standing too near the horses. Anyway, as old Frolic stamped her feet to shake off the pestiferous flies bothering her, I managed to get my little bare foot under one of her hoofs! It came down hard, and she had no intention of moving it again, it seemed to me. There was no one near me to help, though I was uttering very loud cries of distress! I kicked at her leg with my good foot as hard as I could, but she wouldn't move! Finally, after a long time, or so it seemed to me, she lifted her foot and I could get away. My poor big toe was cut and bruised, and I lost that toe- nail as a result of the injury. I always held that against Frolic, I think.
The other mare, Nellie, was my favorite. She was a pretty sorrel in color, with black mane and tail. Nell was very frisky, and lighter in weight than Frolic, but was a good worker. For a long time Dad entertained ideas of having Nell broken to ride, but somehow that never came about. I guess she would let some people ride her, but none of us ventured to try it.
The two mares together caused more than a little trouble for us, as they were prone to run away! I don't think that ever happened out on the homestead, but when we moved to the Burke place, in 1932, they got the idea that a runaway would be fun. I remember the first one, which occurred not long after we moved there, probably in the next summer.
Dad had left them unattended for just a minute right in the farmyard of the place. They were hitched to our hayrack, as we had been putting up hay in the slough. Something triggered their move, and off they went on a dead run, first down the road a little way, then off across the sagebrush pasture land, the empty hayrack bouncing wildly behind them. Soon they came to a steep little hill, dropping down into the slough. They didn't hesitate a moment; down they plunged, the wagon and rack almost overtaking them. I suspect the noise of the bouncing rig behind them sort of helped to keep them going! All three of us--Dad, Robert, and I--were chasing after them, hollering "whoa, whoa" at the top of our lungs, but that didn't phase them one bit.
They continued on across the rough ground of the slough, across the alfalfa field, then took another turn and headed back across the slough! Dad, Robert, and I were still chasing them, but had fallen quite a long way behind. We didn't see exactly what happened, but we knew from the tracks they left. They chose to go between two big cottonwood trees, in the row of trees which bordered the slough at that point. There was a sharp dip of about eight feet there, and the rack must have been partly airborne, for they got through between those trees without the hayrack touching the trees on either side! Robert and I measured the distance between those trees later, and it was NOT wide enough for the rack to go through at ground level. Yet it made no mark on either tree! It was airborne!
On they dashed across the slough and headed into the woods. It happened that there was another large cottonwood tree there in front of them. I guess they didn't communicate well, because they tried to go on opposite sides of that tree, with bad results. When we finally got there, the two horses were still staggering around as if drunk. I think they had bumped heads on the far side of that tree! The tongue of the wagon had struck the tree, of course, and was shattered into splinters, but otherwise the rack was not damaged too badly, considering its wild ride! They were a pretty tame pair after that for a while.
Then one day while Robert was driving them hitched to the mower, cutting hay, they took off again. It may have been that they were stung by yellow-jackets or bumble bees. Thank goodness, Robert toppled off the seat backward, and not in front of the sickle! That pair cut a wide and woolly swath through the hayfield until they tired out, then simply stopped. No harm had been done,except that some hay had been cut rather poorly!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
