One day in the spring of 1855, when all the folks were away except Gordon and myself, we felt somewhat elated that we were running the farm on our own hook, so we conjured up a little fun.

Our long barnyard opened with bars towards the house across the center to separate the cattle from the sheep. Here, just for sport, when no one was around, we would put up two or three bars and then chase the cattle, one by one, and see them jump over.

We had a ferocious wild steer, we called Sexton, which would jump over almost anything to get away from us boys, so he was usually our victim for sport.

Father was accustomed, each fall, to bring muck into the barnyard, which through the winter was covered with cornstalks, straw and manure from the stables, which the cattle would tread in during the rainy spring and mix it ready for the land. On this occasion it had been raining, and the mixture, soft as jelly, was about a foot deep, with the exception of a dry spot by the house bars.

Our custom was to teach all the newcomers into our ranch, or farm, to carry us on their backs, and as the bushes hung low in the pastures and the steers had no manes to cling to, we often got dumped, but we did not care for scratches and bruises, for I boasted to be able to hang to a frightened steer's tail through a bush pasture longer than any boy in the neighborhood.

On this occasion the wild Sexton steer was in the yard—a big black fellow, who was so mean that he would kick the boards off the barn, just if we tickled him with the tines of a pitchfork. Really, he was so unruly that he had no respect for the other cattle, or even a ten-rail fence, when Gordon and I, with the dog, got after him.

Forgetting we were going to prayer meeting that evening, and that we had already put on our Sunday clothes, I said to Gordon:

"I think now is a good time to teach old Sexton to let us ride him."

"Oh, Merrick, don't try that again, he will kill you."

"Nonsense, I'm not afraid; if he throws me off, I will land on my feet."

"You may and you may not; see how black his eyes are; let us take our bows and arrows and go and shoot at Kendel's cats. Mr. and Mrs. Kendel went to Sommers today, so there is no one at home but Grandpa Bragg and he cannot see well enough to tell whether it is us or the Wires' boys."

"Never mind the cats, Gordon," I said as I stripped off my coat in a real businesslike manner, "I am dying for a ride on that steer. Come and help me catch him. There, that's right, now we have him, so, bossy—so, bossy—so-so-bossy, so. Look out, there, Gordon!"

"Merrick, I told you we could not catch him."

"It was because you was so slow. Now you come and stand on this dry spot and when I chase him around, stop him, and I will creep up—there, that is better—so-bossy-so."

"There he goes again. What did I tell you, Merrick? I said we could not catch him."

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"Oh, that is because you are so slow. Now, when I get him here again and he lets me put my hand on him, you must be ready to grab the foot I raise and throw me over square on his back, then I will ride him around and around until he gets tired out; that is just the way they tame elephants. Here we have him again, grab, now grab—there I am. Say, isn't it funny he does not move or stir? Why, I am having a regular picnic up here."

"Oh, Merrick, but if you could see his eyes, and his neck is curved like a ram's horn. He is going to do something. You better seize his tail and slide off backwards before he starts."

"Oh, you little fraid goose, I am just here on his back and he can't help himself. It's just fun, and when I tell the girls about it, won't it make their eyes open wide? He can't just help himself, now punch him a little with the fork handle right under the flanks—gee whiz, it is funny he doesn't start, isn't it? I wonder if steers ever rear up in the front?"

"First you know, Merrick, he will rear up behind and send you into the middle of next week. See, he won't stir when I punch him with the fork handle. He is just getting ready to do something terrible, and when he does start, something will happen. Oh, how he kind of swells up."

"I'm not afraid. Just twist his tail a little, twist it harder. Hey-hey, here I go—look out! Gordon, stop him—whoa-whoa—Oh, Gordon, where have I been? What did he do? Where am I now? and where are my pants?"

"Why, Merrick, just as you were talking to me, he hollered 'Bah,' and started. First your legs flew up and before you caught your balance he stopped suddenly, threw up his head and his horns caught your pants and ripped them clean off, and you took the most awful plunge. You actually flew through the air about ten feet, like a quail, and then disappeared in this manure pond. I thought he had killed you. Say, are you almost dead?"

"Dead, no, but where are my pants and did anybody see us? Did Charlotte Lewis and Mariva Shepherd come this way from school?"

"No, they did not, but see your pants are on his horns now. Oh, Merrick, your eyes, and ears, and hair are just chuck full. Do you think you are hurt inwardly?"

"Hurt? No, I'm not hurt. Gee-whiz, I'm glad the school girls weren't coming along about then. Say, Gordon, lets run for the brook and I will dive, head-foremost, right into the old deep hole, and when I come up I will be span clean."

"Gracious, Merrick, but there is ice floating down now and aren't your legs cold?"

"Cold? No. Pa says there are lots of people in the world who wear no pants—say, Gordon, now listen—if you won't ever tell of this to no living soul I will do all the chores: milking, feeding the hogs, cleaning the stables, building the fire mornings, and I'll be hanged if I don't help you lie yourself out of every mean scrape you get into in the next ten years."

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