A HOSTLER
for nine months. I was used to all kinds of work on the farm, but never had any occasion to become an expert—with the curry comb. I was privileged to belt a pistol about me and guard a prisoner while he did the work, if I liked; but generally I preferred doing the work myself.
For the benefit of my own boys and others who may chance to read these lines, I want to record it: the three months roughing it in the miner's cabin, and the nine months currying Sheriff Bullock's horses, made a year of most valuable training for me. I learned more that twelve months than in any of my life, except the years later in the Civil War.
I was always fond of the girls. I was never in any place long before I was well acquainted with a number of the nicest in the town. Instead of running up in the loft to hide when they came along, many a pleasant chat did I have, standing before the stable door with my overalls on and my sleeves rolled up to my elbows. My brother, returning from the States, took me