352 IOWA DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE. 



Tom and I were going over to inspect a buncli of steers that had 

 been lately shipped in from Kansas City to a neighboring feed-lot, when 

 he made the remark with which I began. Now it is not the custom in 

 Kansas for a man with a mortgage on his own homestead to buy land 

 ■ and present it to his neighbor any more than it is elsewhere. I knew 

 Tom was at all times truthful, never given to romancing, hoaxing or any- 

 thing of the kind, but how a man with his own home mortgaged to the 

 limit, often compelled to buy even his chewing tobacco on long-time 

 credit, forced in every autumn to sell the corn that was really needed to 

 carry his stock through the winter, whose taxes were often paid in part 

 at least by the sale of hides from cows or horses that died simply from 

 the lack of feed — how such a man as this was to buy an eighty and give 

 it to his neighbor scotfree astounded me so that I could not ask even a 

 single question. Doubtless Tom read my amazement, for he continued: 



"You see that was the year we had the F. M. B. A. down at the 

 schoolhouse. Steve and I were elected delegates to the county conven- 

 tion that met down at Sola. It was on Saturday and I walked up to his 

 place and rode to town with him. It was along the last of August and 

 we were just gathering out our first corn to feed the hogs. Steve's corn 

 was turning out about a crop and a half and mine on the bottom was 

 still better. We were talking about feeding steers on the way to town. 

 I knew the bank would let me have money to buy the steers with if only 

 I could stand that mortgage off a while, for the year's interest had to 

 come out of the corn. I was telling Steve about it, but he didn't talk 

 much, only listened, and didn't seem to take much interest. But two or 

 three weeks later he drove to my place one afternoon. 'Say, Tom," said 

 he, 'are you going to feed any steers this winter?' I told him I couldn't, 

 for I had just got a notice from the mortgage agent that all my back 

 interest would have to be paid up at once. After a bit he said: 



" 'Tom, do you think a man can go into a bunch of steers when they 

 are all poor and pick out the ones that will be the best feeders?" 

 "Sure." said I. "How?' 'By the tails.' 'Tails?" 'Yes, tails.' 'Why.' said 

 he /how is that?' You see, he had been over among the New Yorkers on 

 Elm Creek and the English up on Rock Creek and he had heard all about 

 picking the steer with a bright eye and a waxy horn, or a short, wide 

 face, or for a wide chest, or for short legs, and all that kind of rot that 

 the old feeders fool away their time talking about. But he had never 

 heard about a steer's tail having anything to do with the way he feeds 

 out. 'Well,' said he finally, 'would you mind getting in the spring-wagon 

 and riding around with me this afternoon?' I got in and the first bunch 

 of steers we saw he asked me to show him what I meant. I picked out 

 five or six steers that had the right sort of tails on them, tapering tails, 

 you know, tails in which the l)one is no larger than the bone of your little 

 finger down next to the brush, but is ixZ big as your arm up w^here it 

 joins on. Pretty soon Steve thought he had found another tail that was 

 just right, but I told him no; that the brush was too long and that a long 

 brush usually meant a wild fool steer, and it always meant a slow-feeding 

 steer. Finally Steve said: 



