were spent on a ranch in Yuba County, California. We were located
on the east side of Feather River, about five miles above Marysville.
The ranch consisted of several hundred acres of high land, which, at its
western terminus, fell away about one hundred feet to the river bottom.
There were a couple of hundred acres of this river bottom land which was
arable. It was exceedingly rich and productive. Still west of this land
was a well-wooded pasture, separated from the cultivated lands by a good
board fence. The river bounded this pasture on the north and west.

In the pasture were swales of damp land, literally overgrown with wild
blackberry bushes. They bore prolific crops of long, black, juicy
berries, far superior to the tame berries, and they were almost entirely
free from seeds. Many a time have I temporarily bankrupted my stomach on
hot blackberry roll, with good, rich sauce.

The country fairly teemed with game. Quail and rabbit were with us all
the time. Doves came by the thousands in the early summer and departed
in the fall. In winter the wild ducks and geese were more than abundant.
In the spring wild pigeons visited us in great numbers. There was one
old oak tree which was a favorite resting-place with them. Sheltered by
some live oak bushes, I was always enabled to sneak up and kill many of
them out of this tree.

I began to wander with the gun when I was but a little over eight years
old. The gun was a long, double-barrel, muzzle-loading derelict. Wads
were not a commercial commodity in those days. I would put in some
powder, guessing at the amount, then a wad of newspaper, and thoroughly
ram it home, upon top of this the shot, quantity also guessed at, and
more paper. But it was barely shoved to the shot, never rammed. Sad
experience taught me that ramming the shot added to the kicking
qualities of the firearm. How that old gun could kick! Many times it
bowled me over. St. George Littledale, a noted English sportsman, in
describing a peculiarly heavy express rifle, said, "It was absolutely
without recoil. Every time I discharged it, it simply pushed me over."
That described my gun exactly, except that it had "the recoil." I deemed
myself especially fortunate if I could get up against a fence post or an
oak tree when I shot at something. By this means I retained an upright
position. Armed with this gun, an antiquated powder flask, a shot pouch
whose measurer was missing, and a dilapidated game bag, I spent