She was a great pet and favorite with the whole family, quickly
learned playful tricks, came running when we called, seemed to know
everything we said to her, and had the utmost confidence in our
friendly kindness.

We used to cut and shock and husk the Indian corn in the fall, until a
keen Yankee stopped overnight at our house and among other
labor-saving notions convinced father that it was better to let it
stand, and husk it at his leisure during the winter, then turn in the
cattle to eat the leaves and trample down the stalks, so that they
could be ploughed under in the spring. In this winter method each of
us took two rows and husked into baskets, and emptied the corn on the
ground in piles of fifteen to twenty basketfuls, then loaded it into
the wagon to be hauled to the crib. This was cold, painful work, the
temperature being oftentimes far below zero and the ground covered
with dry, frosty snow, giving rise to miserable crops of chilblains
and frosted fingers,--a sad change from the merry Indian-summer
husking, when the big yellow pumpkins covered the cleared
fields;--golden corn, golden pumpkins, gathered in the hazy golden
weather. Sad change, indeed, but we occasionally got some fun out of
the nipping, shivery work from hungry prairie chickens, and squirrels
and mice that came about us.

The piles of corn were often left in the field several days, and while
loading them into the wagon we usually found field mice in
them,--big, blunt-nosed, strong-scented fellows that we were taught to
kill just because they nibbled a few grains of corn. I used to hold
one while it was still warm, up to Nob's nose for the fun of seeing
her make faces and snort at the smell of it; and I would say: "Here,
Nob," as if offering her a lump of sugar. One day I offered her an