I mention with pride the physical strength and agility with which I was born, and which sustains me still. Equestrianship came into vogue in western cities in about 1885, and was kept up until bicycles came out. At one period I kept four saddle horses for the use of my family. Like other horse fanciers, I carried it to the extreme. For over two years, summer and winter, wet or dry, I mounted my pet horse, Deacon, at four o'clock in the morning, and rode ten to thirty miles before breakfast. I also had a vicious horse—Blackhawk—who objected to the saddle, which I took out occasionally, just for the fun. Often with me in the saddle he would rear up and come over on his back, which, when I felt him going, I would swing around and land on my feet, then mount him again when he was springing up. When I gave him the spurs he would kick, only to get the spurs again when his heels came down, and sometimes we both went over the sidewalk into the ditch, which I enjoyed, for I never got hurt.

In 1895 the bicycle craze came on, and we all left our horses and mounted wheels. I objected to the wheel at first, but when my son, Arthur, brought me a wheel to the factory and insisted that I should try it. I did, and made lots of sport for the hands who were watching me trying to mount, for whenever I lost my balance I would throw the wheel against the curbstone.

That evening Arthur and Walton Aborn gave me a lesson in the dark, and the next day I could ride—that was if all the gates were closed—but when I saw one open I somehow seemed to start right for it, often to the disgust of some dignified old gentleman or frowning lady, who were scrambling for their lives to get out of my way and wondering what I was trying to do.

About the third day I started before daybreak for my brother's summer cottage at Twin Lakes, Wis., about sixty-five miles northwest of Chicago. I arrived about noon, but, oh, the summersaults I did take. Honestly, when I got there, there was scarcely an inch on the wheel where the varnish was not scratched, or any very large patches on my legs where the skin was presentable, for when I took a heels over head into the wayside, the bark usually got scraped off of either the saplings or me. The next day I took a 100-mile circuitous route home, and then for a day was under the care of Dr. Chamberlain, my son-in-law, who was bound to have my picture taken, which I stubbornly declined, but now I wish I had it.