A RANCHMAN'S RECOLLECTIONS 



father, I loved better than any man. Loved? Yes, 

 idolized, with all the strongest outpourings of the 

 human heart where man loves man. I shall often 

 refer to him ; somewhere in this series I shall devote 

 a chapter to him, but I must get off by myself. (My 

 manuscript may bear the tear stains which a man 

 wishes to hide from his fellows.) 



"When the frost is on the punkin and the fod- 

 der's in the shock," when the day dawned sweet and 

 clear, with the delicious thrift of October air, Mr. 

 Armour would say, "Never mind what you have on 

 hand ; let's go over and see Brother Jim." We took 

 the train to Lathrop, Mo., and usually, while I was 

 hiring a team, Mr. Armour, a persistent trader, 

 would buy a team of horses or a few mules. Our 

 drive to Plattsburg, Mo., and to the Funkhouser 

 farm, took us through a rolling, wooded country, 

 with little streams here and there, bridged with the 

 picturesque structures of before the war, often with 

 the elms meeting over them. In October Nature's 

 most wondrous brush had painted a landscape no 

 artist could reproduce. There were hard maple 

 reds, Cottonwood and hickory yellows, poplar silvers, 

 multi-colored pawpaws, and the deep ermine of 

 vines clinging with suffocating ardor to giant oaks; 

 redbirds whistling goodbyes to dying summer, and, 

 as if in conclave for the flight to winter quarters, the 

 little bird folk of the woods kept the music of God's 

 great outdoors echoing the exultation of our souls. 



[32] 



