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!