At that instant the boy who had rescued us from the roadside appeared, and as he advanced to speak to us, another lad, a size larger, entered from the kitchen and was joined in a moment by boys number one, two, three and four. The room was of fair size, but it seemed to overflow with blue-clad youths.
“Well, what do you think of my little brood?” cried the laughing voice of our hostess, who had entered unobserved.
“Are these all your boys?” I gasped, gazing at her still youthful face and figure. “It doesn’t seem possible. I had about concluded that the fall from the bicycle had affected my brain or my vision; I wasn’t sure which.”
“Indeed, they are all mine, and not all my family either. My two oldest sons are still in the fields. I have nine in all. The eldest has just turned twenty-three, while the youngest two are twelve. The next two are twins also, and only fifteen months older.”
As the lads were introduced, it seemed that a more remarkable, handsomer group of youngsters would be difficult to find. In spite of the utmost care, I was unable to identify the younger ones, so that they must linger in my memory as a group.
All were eager to be of service and assisted Dan in putting the tandem in shape for further adventures. It was with regret that we bade them farewell next morning, and I often think with envy of the happy mother of such a delightful family.
One evening we stood beside the railroad track while the Overland Limited shot by. As we crossed behind the vanishing train, I saw a strange object moving between the rails. Closer inspection disclosed a large terrapin crawling over the ties as fast as he could scramble. I gathered him up and took him back to Dan.
“Now for some real turtle soup,” cried he, making a grab for the creature. But the terrapin resented such tactics with so fierce a snap that Dan, perforce, released him.
Sitting beside the campfire that evening, I bored a hole in Mister Turtle’s shell and attached a stout string. Next morning we rigged a large square can atop the bedding roll and daily the turtle rode in state on a bed of fresh leaves, while at night he was staked out in whatever water was available. He attracted much attention along the way, for his shell was very handsome, but his jaws proved to be so savage that nobody dared to touch him but me. I named him Bird and, while resting, would frequently take him from his bed and gently stroke and tickle his neck or leg, which he would stretch out to be petted.
Some time later we camped on the bank of the North Platte River and as usual I staked Bird out at the edge of the stream. Next morning I was busy with the laundry, so did not call for Mister Turtle until nearly noon. What was my amazement to find him flat on his back at the extreme limit of his string, while a large bird stalked round and round him and aimed vicious pecks at the soft folds of skin between the edges of his shell. I rescued my poor pet, who seemed completely exhausted, and, conscience-stricken, loosed the string and gave him his liberty. A last glance revealed Bird paddling down stream. He will surely be a well-travelled turtle by the time he reaches the sunny south for which he so boldly headed.