be pounded
on the frozen ground."

The cowboy made a sharp reply, but Sewall, feeling his blood rise to
his head, became only more firm in refusing to be bulldozed.

"I suppose you fellows can ride broncos," he said, "but you cannot
ride me, and if you get on, your feet will drag."

There the conversation ended. The next morning Sewall heard the cowboy
remark, not too pleasantly, "I suppose it is no use to saddle any bad
ones for Sewall, for he said he wouldn't ride them."

Sewall paid no attention to the thrust. The whole affair had a comic
conclusion, for it happened that, quite by accident, Sewall, in
attempting to pick out a gentle horse, picked one who ultimately
proved to be one of the worst in the herd. For all the time that
Sewall was on his back, he acted like a model of the virtues. It was
only when Dow subsequently mounted him that he began to reveal his
true character, bucking Dow within an inch of his life. The cowboy,
however, made no more efforts at intimidation.

To Roosevelt--to whom difficulty and peril were always a challenge,
and pain itself was a visitant to be wrestled with and never released
until a blessing had been wrung from the mysterious lips--the
hardships and exertions of those wintry day were a source of boyish
delight. It partook of the nature of adventure to rise at five (three
hours ahead of the sun) and ride under the starlight to bring in the
saddle-band; and it gave a sense of quiet satisfaction to manly pride
later to crowd around the fire where the cowboys were stamping and
beating their numbed hands together and know that you had borne
yourself as well as they. After a day of bronco-busting in the corral,
or of riding hour after hour, head on into the driven snow-dust, there
was a sense of real achievement when night fell, and a consciousness
of strength. The cabin was small, but it was storm-proof and homelike,
and the men with whom Roosevelt shared it were brave and true and
full of humor and good yarns. They played checkers and chess and
"casino" and "Old Sledge" through the long evenings, and read
everything in type that came under their hands. Roosevelt was not the
only one, it seemed, who enjoyed solid literature.

Did I tell you about my cowboys reading and in large part
comprehending, your "Studies in Literature"? [Roosevelt
wrote to Lodge]. My foreman handed the book back to me
to-day, after reading the "Puritan Pepys," remarking
meditati