I cannot tell you the exact date of my birth. As I was separated from my mother at a very early age, this lack of knowledge on my part, I think, should be excused. But Polly has often told me it was the second day of April, 1866, that I came into her possession.
On that particular morning the wind was very high and had a stinging bite in it and my mother, after giving me my breakfast, left me nestled down in a bunch of tall, dry grass, and went out for her own breakfast.
I soon fell asleep. How long I had slept I do not know, when I was suddenly aroused from my comfortable nap by a large, dark animal snorting right over me. Of course, I was very much frightened and wished my mother would come to me. If I had not been so shaky on my legs I would have run away in search of her, but my feet had an uncomfortable way of getting too far apart, and my body seemed entirely too heavy for my legs; so I lay very still, hoping that this strange object might pass on and not disturb me. But a few moments later there bent over me what I soon after learned was a man.
“Hello!” he said, “here is a baby antelope. There—don’t struggle so, or you will break your pipe-stem legs.”
Soon I found that it was useless for me to try to free myself from his grasp, for while he was not at all rough, he held me quite firmly. Then I began to shiver from fear; also from the cold wind.
“Poor little fellow—he is cold,” the man said, soothingly, and he took a blanket from the pommel of his saddle and wrapped it around me. Then, mounting his horse, with me still in his arms, we set out across the prairie. After about half an hour he stopped at a gate, where there were several log cabins huddled together.
“Polly! Come here, Polly!” the man called, and a little flaxen-haired girl came running from one of the cabins.
“What is it, papa?” she called, as she opened the heavy gate.
“It is a new pet for you—a baby antelope,” and he handed me down to her.
Polly put me on the ground and lifted the blanket from around me.