with the utmost ingenuousness. One day when he and I were in
Poughkeepsie, we met a strange lad on the street with very red hair,
and Father said to him, "I can remember when my hair was as red as
yours." The boy stared at him and passed on.

Although Father lacked delicacy, he did not lack candor or
directness. He would tell a joke on himself with the same glee
that he would on any one else. . . . I have heard him tell how,
in 1844, at the time of the "anti-renters," when he saw the posse
coming, he ran over the hill to Uncle Daniel's and crawled under
the bed, but left his feet sticking out, and there they found him.
He had not offended, or dressed as an Indian, but had sympathized
with the offenders.

He made a great deal of noise about the farm, sending his voice
over the hills (we could hear him calling us to dinner when we
were working on the "Rundle Place," half a mile away), shouting at
the cows, the pigs, the sheep, or calling the dog, with needless
expenditure of vocal power at all times and seasons. The neighbors
knew when Father was at home; so did the cattle in the remotest
field. His bark was always to be dreaded more than his bite.
His threats of punishment were loud and severe, but the punishment
rarely came. Never but once did he take a gad to me, and then the
sound was more than the substance. I deserved more than I got: I
had let a cow run through the tall grass in the meadow when I might
easily have "headed her off," as I was told to do. Father used to
say "No," to our requests for favors (such as a day off to go
fishing or hunting) with strong emphasis, and then yield to our
persistent coaxing.