A RANCHMAN'S RECOLLECTIONS 



trate his gentleness of heart, the one of the great 

 packer — "the daily spiller of tons of blood" — and the 

 humble rabbit seems best. When we went to the 

 Excelsior Springs farm on Saturdays, Watson and 

 Lawrence Armour (Kirk's sons, then mere children) 

 usually went with us, getting all the sport that boys 

 should out of a farm visit. Once, while driving in 

 the old spring wagon through the pastures, a young 

 cottontail ran out from its nest. The boys were out 

 in a minute, and we all joined in the pursuit, sprawl- 

 ing about in the grass until it was caught. The boys 

 were of course for taking it home for a pet. Mr. 

 Armour, holding the frightened little fellow in his 

 hand, turned to his farm manager, "Charley" Wirt, 

 and asked, "Do rabbits cause much damage?" 

 "Charley" said, "Yes; they gnaw the young fruit 

 trees, and do lots of damage to the garden." Mr. 

 Armour stroked it for a moment, put it down in the 

 grass, and, as it scampered off, said, "Well, I 

 guess this one will not make much difference." I 

 have always loved Bret Harte's poem Luke, and this 

 came into my mind — 



"And she looked me right in the eye — I'd seen sunthin' like 



it before 

 When I hunted a wounded doe to the edge o' the Clear 



Lake shore, 

 And I had my knee on its neck, and I jist was raisin' my 



knife 

 When it give me a look like that, and — well, it got off with 



its life." 



[89J 



