My Boyhood and Touth 



in summer, but mostly in winter when the 

 sleighing was good and plenty of time avail- 

 able. One hot summer day father drove Nob 

 to Portage and back, twenty-four miles over a 

 sandy road. It was a hot, hard, sultry day's 

 work, and she had evidently been over-driven 

 in order to get home in time for one of these 

 meetings. I shall never forget how tired and 

 wilted she looked that evening when I unhitched 

 her; how she drooped in her stall, too tired to 

 eat or even to lie down. Next morning it was 

 plain that her lungs were inflamed; all the 

 dreadful symptoms were just the same as my 

 own when I had pneumonia. Father sent for a 

 Methodist minister, a very energetic, resource- 

 ful man, who was a blacksmith, farmer, butcher, 

 and horse-doctor as well as minister; but all 

 his gifts and skill were of no avail. Nob was 

 doomed. We bathed her head and tried to get 

 her to eat something, but she couldn't eat, 

 and in about a couple of weeks we turned her 

 loose to let her come around the house and see 

 us in the weary suffering and loneliness of the 

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