Soiling. 45 



Finally, it came about the middle or last of June, 

 and my cattle began to get unruly. (I only had six 

 head — think of only six cows and five horses on loo 

 acres of tillable land! Xo wonder the fertility of 

 the old farm had gone.) 



The old tumbled-down fences were no hindrance 

 to the natural taste for adventure and desire to 

 roam, which became magnified as the condition of 

 the pasture diminished, and the spirit that entered 

 the swine, or some that was left over, seemed to fill 

 them in proportion as their stomachs became empty. 

 They went wild themselves, and drove all hands 

 nearly crazy. It was just at a time of year when 

 farm work was driving, and, therefore, no time to 

 build fences. 



In fact, after a week or two of schooling over the 

 old fences surrounding the pasture, nothing was too 

 high for them to get over. My cows, every one of 

 them, were so proficient in jumping that they were 

 fit to ride across any country to hounds, and as to 

 speed, any farm lad knows how a steer can run 

 through the corn. I remember driving them out of 

 the corn myself one day, and having them jump back 

 again in another place while I was patching up the 

 first breach. 



If there could only have been a precipice where 

 they could have run violently down into the sea and 

 all have been drowned, I should have been a most 

 happy spectator. 



The sleepless nights, the worry, the anxiety, the 

 miserable fences that could not be fixed were all 



