legs into a bunch and
crisscrossed the rope.

"Pretty well done, my son, pretty well done," was the encouraging
comment of my new friend. "Now I will take him by the head while you
seize him by the tail, and we will hoist him into the wagon."

Before we could do so, however, we heard a sudden rattle of wheels close
at hand, and glancing around, I saw Gramp and Addison with old Sol in
the express wagon. They had harnessed and given chase; Theodora and
Aunt Olive, whom they met, had adjured them to drive fast if they hoped
ever to overtake me. Grandfather, on seeing who was helping me,
exclaimed, "Why, Senator, how do you do, sir! My calf appears to be
making you a great deal of trouble."

In fact, my friend in need was none other than Hon. Lot M. Morrill, who
had been Governor of Maine for three terms in succession, and was now
United States Senator. Grandfather and he had been acquaintances for
forty years or more; and I have inferred since that the object of Mr.
Morrill's visit on this occasion was in part political. At this
particular time the Senator was "looking after his political
fences"--although this phrase had not yet come into vogue.

Grandfather and Mr. Morrill immediately drove home together, leaving
Addison and me to put the calf in the express wagon and follow more
slowly.

Senator Morrill at this time gave me the impression of being a man
oppressed by not a little anxiety, and inclined to be dissatisfied with
his career. As distinctly as if it were yesterday, I recall what he said
to me the next morning as he was about to drive away. "My son," said he
impressively, "don't you be a politician. Be a farmer like your
grandfather. He has had a happier life than I have had."

As it chanced, I was soon to have further experience with headstrong
young cattle.

CHAPTER IV

OUR FIRST JERSEY COW

Theodora had brought home the mail from the post-office out at the
Corners; and I remember that at the breakfast table next morning, the
Old Squire, who was reading the news from the weekly papers, looked up
and said in a tone of solemnity, that General Winfield Scott was dead;
that he had died at West Point, May 29.

The announcement signified little to us young people, whose knowledge of
generals and military events was confined mainly to the closing years of
the Civil War, but meant much to those of the older generation, who
remembered with still glowing enthusiasm the victor of Lundy's Lane in
18