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I remember once hearing my mother tell how she and her brothers and sisters were hidden up in an attic when the grown folks were afraid of a Comanche raid.

Mother taught school for a time and travelled to the little one room school house on horseback. She carried a ### pistol to protest herself.

I was two years younger than my brother and was jealous of him. He had his very own pony, and saddle and bridle - that saddle and bridle especially made for him.

when he was old enough [[strikethrough]] t [[/strikethrough]] - about eight - he was given the job of riding out into the Big Passure and bringing in the milking cows. He always carried a .45 Winchester rifle to protect himself from timber wolves. None ever showed up and there probably weren't any between San Antonio and the Mexican border.

I had the privielege of riding a small jackass. He continually tossed me off - and I was disgusted.

I once got on board a sleeping pig. He jumped up with a fiendish roar and threw me off and my knee struck a rock and I thought I was killed. I never rode another porker.

My father was killed in a RR accident in 1902 and the ranch had to be sold and ended our lives in what - to us children - was a Garden of Eden.

We were taken up to Mass. and educated and twisted and turned into modern Yankees.

I often wonder where I would be and what I would be if my father had lived. Dead - probably.

Take care!

Sincerely
Derry