Mac and I had passed the day in the village of Ripley. The Raines Law did not seem to have a salutary effect on that section of the State. I met on the road that afternoon a tall, lank, tipsy fellow, carrying a long muzzle-loader gun. He stopped me, and said he was a Westerner, a half-breed, and fifty years old. "Been out shootin' mavericks," he said importantly. "Same gun (hic) had in th' Rockies. I'm gentle, though—gentle as a kitten." I was charmed to know he was not hostile, said "So long," and hurried on.
Sunday was Valentine's Day. I received a few doubtfully appropriate souvenirs, but did not discover the name of a single friend in the batch. Before leaving Ripley I was presented with a large and handsome dog, a cross between the bloodhound and the mastiff, a pup weighing 98 pounds, which I named Donkeyota. The generous donor was a Mr. W. W. Rickenbrode, who accompanied me some distance to assist me in handling the huge animal, in case of emergency. He had no sooner bade me good-bye than I feared lest I should not be able to make another mile that day. The wind blew a hurricane. While passing a cemetery, I took a snap-shot of square grave-stones, which photograph shows them rolling in that driving gale. It was the most wonderful demonstration of the wind's power I ever witnessed.
Shortly afterward, in descending a steep and icy road into a gully the sled with its burden ran against my donkey's heels, upset him, and carried him half way down the hill. In my anxiety and haste to assist Mac, and hold on to my hat, I dropped the dog's chain, and away he went kiting down hill after the sled; and I needed four hands. To my surprise, the dog, Don, seemed to enjoy the entertainment, and instead of fleeing back to Ripley, rolled in the snow and barked in glee.
We reached the Half Way House, Harbor Creek, after dark. Next morning after breakfast the landlord's little daughter came rushing into the house to impart the thrilling news that John, their horse, had a little colt; and, enthusiastically leading us to the stable, she pointed to my donkey and said, "There! see?" Mac A'Rony turned his head and regarded the little one with a comical expression on his countenance, as much as to say, "If I brayed, you'd think me a Colt's revolver."
Upon entering the city of Erie, Pa., the Transfer Company sent an invitation to Mac A'Rony and Donkeyota to be its guests; I sought a leading hotel, and busied myself with my newspaper article. Tuesday, late in the day, we started for Fairview, twelve miles beyond. We passed many jolly sleighing parties, some of whom stopped to chat with me, and share with me refreshments, and purchase my chromos; and one sleigh load promised to entertain me royally at the hotel. They kept their word, and after refreshments and an hour's rest, we resumed the journey in the light of the full moon, arriving at Girard by 9:30. Next morning, the village constable arrested my attention and persuaded me to act as auctioneer at a vendue; by which deal I made some money. I worded the hand-bill as follows:
AUCTION SALE.
Monday, February 15th, 1897.
The farm of Jeremy Shimm, its buildings, live-stock,
farming utensils and implements, its crops
and its woodland, its weals and its woes, including the