brush, and around
these coverts of popple, Burton and I careered, hunting the cows,
chasing rabbits, killing rattlesnakes, watching the battles of bulls,
racing the half-wild colts and pursuing the prowling wolves. It was an
alluring life, and Harriet, who rode with us occasionally, seemed to
enjoy it quite as much as any boy. She could ride almost as well as
Burton, and we were all expert horse-tamers.

We all rode like cavalrymen,--that is to say, while holding the reins in
our left hands we guided our horses by the pressure of the strap across
the neck, rather than by pulling at the bit. Our ponies were never
allowed to trot. We taught them a peculiar gait which we called "the
lope," which was an easy canter in front and a trot behind (a very good
gait for long distances), and we drilled them to keep this pace steadily
and to fall at command into a swift walk without any jolting intervening
trot.--We learned to ride like circus performers standing on our
saddles, and practised other of the tricks we had seen, and through it
all my mother remained unalarmed. To her a boy on a horse was as natural
as a babe in the cradle. The chances we took of getting killed were so
numerous that she could not afford to worry.

Burton continued to be my almost inseparable companion at school and
whenever we could get together, and while to others he seemed only a
shy, dull boy, to me he was something more. His strength and skill were
remarkable and his self-command amazing. Although a lad of instant,
white-hot, dangerous temper, he suddenly, at fifteen years of age, took
himself in hand in a fashion miraculous to me. He decided (I never knew
just why or how)--that he would never again use an obscene or profane
word. He kept his vow. I knew him for over thirty years and I never
heard him raise his voice in anger or utter a word a woman would have
shrunk from,--and yet he became one of the most fearless and indomitable
mountaineers I ever knew.

This change in him profoundly influenced me and though I said nothing
about it, I resolved to do as well. I never quite succeeded, although I
discouraged as well as I could the stories which some of the men and
boys were so fond of telling, but alas! when the old cow kicked over my
pail of milk, I fell from grace and told her just what I thought of her
in phrases that Burton would have repressed. Still, I manfully tried to
follow his good trail.

* * * * *