sluggish river was deep. When my father informed the ferryman that he
had no money with which to pay the ferriage, the latter turned on him
remarking, sarcastically: "What, no money? My dear sir, it certainly
can't make much difference to a man which side of the river he's on,
when he has no money."

Nothing daunted by this rebuff, my father argued the point at some
length, when the ferryman relented so far as to inform him that ten
miles higher up, the river was fordable. We arrived at the ford the
next day. My father rode across and back, testing the stage of the
water and the river's bottom before driving the wagon in. Then taking
one of the older boys behind him on the mule in order to lighten the
wagon, he drove the oxen into the river. Near the middle the water was
deep enough to reach the wagon box, but with shoutings and a free
application of the gad, we hurried through in safety. One of the wheel
oxen, a black steer which we called "Pop-eye," could be ridden, and I
straddled him in fording, laving my sunburned feet in the cool water.
The cows were driven over next, the dogs swimming, and at last, bag
and baggage, we were in Texas.

We reached the Colorado River early in the fall, where we stopped and
picked cotton for several months, making quite a bit of money, and
near Christmas reached our final destination on the San Antonio River,
where we took up land and built a house. That was a happy home; the
country was new and supplied our simple wants; we had milk and honey,
and, though the fig tree was absent, along the river grew endless
quantities of mustang grapes. At that time the San Antonio valley was
principally a cattle country, and as the boys of our family grew old
enough the fascination of a horse and saddle was too strong to be
resisted. My two older brothers went first, but my father and mother