286 STATE BOARD OF AGRICULTURE. 



Brambles." But the one that impressed most was that of the "Impartial 

 Judge." A farmer came to a neighboring lawyer, expressing great concern 

 for an accident which he said had just happened. "One of your oxen," con- 

 tinued he, 'Mias been gored by an unlucky bull of mine; and I should be 

 glad to know how I can make you reparation." " Thou art a very honest fel- 

 low," replied the lawyer, "and will not think it unreasonable that I expect 

 one of thy oxen in return." "It is no more than justice," said the farmer, 

 "but what did 1 say? I mistake; it is your bull that killed one of my oxen." 

 "Indeed," says the lawyer, "that alters the case. I must inquire into the 



affair, and if and if " Said the farmer; "The business would have 



been concluded without an if, had you been as ready to do justice to others as 

 to exact it from them." 



This parable has left the impression on many a youthful mind that the 

 lawyer was a crafty, dishonest wretch, seeking to avoid a just responsibility, 

 while the farmer was the personification of honesty. The readiness of the 

 lawyer to demand compensation for the loss of his ox, and ingenuity of the 

 farmer in stating the case, are characteristics which are frequently noticed. 



While I was yet a boy, and this parable fresh in my mind, a circumstance, 

 similar to that spoken of in the parable, occurred in the neighborhood Avhere 

 I lived, and in my presence. It was in Oakland county, Michigan, about 

 1837. The county was new and sparsely settled. The roads were bad and 

 sometimes impassible. Every spring an overseer of highways was chosen; 

 we called him the "pathmaster." At his call, the settlers within his district 

 assembled with yokes of oxen, shovels, spades, axes, and sometimes a dilap- 

 idated scraper, to "work on the road." 



At the time of which I am speaking the pathmaster was a tall, swarthy, 

 imperious looking pioneer, ignorant as a horseblock, could neither read nor 

 write. The neighbors called him the "Emperor." He kept his tally by 

 making pin holes in the tally sheet. One pin hole represented a day's work; 

 two pin holes, one over the other, a half day, and so on. He furnished a yoke 

 of oxen. 



Fences were few, only sufficient to protect the crops. What few domestic 

 animals the people had, by common consent, ran at large in the woods and 

 subsisted on what they could find. One of the neighbors owned a bull — a 

 very gentle, peaceable animal, which ranged in the woods with the other cattle. 

 No one supposed the bull to be vicious or dangerous. Indeed he was quite a 

 pet in the neighborhood. While we were at work the neighbors' cattle, 

 together with the bull, gathered around, some brousing from the trees felled 

 by the workmen, others seeking the shade. Suddenly the bull made a plunge 

 at one of the "Emperor's" oxen and fatally gored him. 



He supposed that the owner of the unlucky bull would have to pay for the ox, 

 and, indeed, the owner thought so himself. The matter would undoubtedly 

 have been settled without an if had it not been for certain influences, which 

 are sometimes brought to bear in such cases. 



Among those who were working on the road at this time was a man from 

 "York State " who had graduated as a lawyer, but who, for want of proper 

 encouragement in that profession, had turned pioneer and settled in the woods 

 of Michigan. His name was S. A. L. Ward. The neighbors bunched the 

 initials of his name, and called him old " Sal." He was also sometimes 

 called a pettifogger. "Sal" advised the owner of the bull that he was not 

 liable, and could not be legally made to pay for the ox. It happened also that 

 there was a blacksmith in the neighborhood by the name of Troutwine, 



