One of the first trades he made was for a little pony
for me--a four-year-old--which I was told I should have to break
myself. I named him Prince. I had a couple of hard falls, but I made up
my mind I was going to ride that pony or bust, and--I did not bust.
The next evening, looking over toward the west, I saw a truly frontier
sight--a line of trappers winding down the hillside with their pack
animals. My mother had often told me of the trappers searching the
distant mountains for fur-bearing animals and living a life of
fascinating adventure. Here they were in reality.
While some of the men prepared the skins, others built a fire and began
to get a meal. I watched them cook the dried venison, and was filled
with wonder at their method of making bread, which was to wrap the
dough about a stick and hold it over the coals till it was ready to
eat. You can imagine my rapture when one of them--a pleasant-faced
youth--looked up, and catching sight of me, invited me to share the
meal.
Boys are always hungry, but I was especially hungry for such a meal as
that. After it was over I hurried to camp and told my father all that
had passed. At his request I brought the young trapper who had been so
kind to me over to our camp, and there he had a long talk with father,
telling him of his adventures by land and sea in all parts of the
world.
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