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.
One day I was going to town and asked him for money to buy an
algebra. "What is an algebra?" He had never heard of an algebra,
and couldn't see why I needed one; he refused the money, though I
coaxed and Mother pleaded with him. I had left the house and had
got as far as the big hill up there by the pennyroyal rock, when he
halloed to me that I might get the algebra--Mother had evidently
been instrumental in bringing him to terms.
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