A RANCHMAN'S RECOLLECTIONS 



produce; they were "dandies." We were showing 

 S. M. S. feeder calves. Since it was in the days when 

 we reserved the right to pick a show load, we had 

 gone the limit, and knew that they were good. I 

 took one of our men with me over the show pens to 

 look at what we had to go against in the sweep- 

 stakes if we won in our class. When we reached 

 the Grubb steers I said, "Here is where we die." A 

 man stepped up to me and said, "I think that we 

 know each other; I am 'Gene' Grubb." 



Personalities are dominant; this was a personality. 

 He was tall and well-made, with "the head and front 

 of Jove himself," a face beaming with that quality 

 which made "Ben Adhem's name lead all the rest," 

 the love of his fellow-men was written like a scroll 

 upon his countenance, justice and fairness flowed 

 from eyes set wide below a high forehead, and the 

 square jaw told that this man would go to the last 

 ditch. His voice had the quality of magnetism; it 

 was soft and clear, and full of friendliness as he 

 invited us in to "feel" the steers. 



From his pens we went to our own, and he did me 

 the compliment to talk more with my companion, 

 who, he realized, had been vital in handling them, 

 than he talked with me. So began a friendship 

 which has stood the test of time, and brought to me, 

 written on last Christmas day from his den in Butte 

 City, Calif., where he now spends most of his time, 

 a beautiful letter, graciously reviewing our first meet- 



[187] 



