A RANCHMAN'S RECOLLECTIONS 



How we loved it all! The smell of the woods we 

 knew would slowly give way to the odor of chicken 

 frying and the rest of the wondrous aromas that 

 drift in from the kitchen of country homes. Pound 

 cake is my weakness, served warm and buttered as 

 eaten. We knew that it would be a part of the meal. 

 We always asked to go out and see it brown and cool- 

 ing, and get a "whiff." Angel's food is all right for 

 angels, but I am in the other class, and pound cake 

 is good enough for me. 



The Funkhouser home, a one-story brick, vine- 

 clad and picturesque, nestled in a glorious maple 

 grove. A distinguished trio met us, "Brother Jim," 

 his wonderful wife and Will Willis, her brother, the 

 well-known herdsman. "Brother Jim" had the right 

 system: he never asked you to look at his cattle 

 until some one had helped you up from the table. 

 There may have been some one strong enough to 

 turn his back on a trade after eating one of Mrs. 

 Funkhouser's dinners, but he is not of record. She 

 was an ideal hostess, a woman of unusual attain- 

 ments, comely and entertaining, her soft Missouri 

 southern accents suggesting ante-bellum days, with 

 their graces and courtesy. Mr. Armour said to me, 

 on our way home, "I believe that 'Mrs. Jim' is a 

 better salesman that 'Brother Jim'; she gets you in 

 the humor to pay any price he asks." He then added : 

 "I am wiUing to buy a cow or a bull any time to sit 

 down to one of her dinners." Its results may have 



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