history. Some years before he had sprained his back, since which time he
had been unable to perform hard labour; but prior to that mishap he had
been a perfect specimen of physical manhood--one whose prowess had been
the marvel of an extensive territory. He had split and laid up his three
hundred and fifty rails many a day, when strong men beside him had
blushingly to stop with three hundred or thereabouts; he had also cradled
his four acres of grain in a day, and he could break the wildest horse
ever known. Even the great Budd Doble, whom he personally knew, had said
more than once, and in the presence of unimpeachable witnesses, that in
some ways he, Budd Doble, knew less about a horse than Cousin Bill J. did.
The little boy was wrought to enthusiasm by this tribute, resolving always
to remember to say "hoss" for horse; and, though he had not heard of Budd
Doble before, the name was magnetic for him. After you said it over
several times he thought it made you feel as if you had a cold in your
head.

Still further, Cousin Bill J. could throw his thumbs out of joint, sing
tenor in the choir, charm away warts, recite "Roger and I" and "The Death
of Little Nell," and he knew all the things that would make boys grow
fast, like bringing in wood, splitting kindling, putting down hay for the
cow, and other out-of-door exercises that had made him the demon of
strength he once was. The little boy was not only glad to perform these
acts for his own sake, but for the sake of lightening the labours of his
hero, who wrenched his back anew nearly every time he tried to do
anything, and was always having to take a medicine for it which he called
"peach-and-honey." The little boy thought the name attractive, though his
heart bled for the sufferer each time he was obliged to take it; for after
every swallow of the stuff he made a face that told eloquently how
nauseous it must be.