Little Jim
…........ I can't remember when I ever was a little boy, for there were five older than I. During my childhood, youth and young manhood, I had just one birthday; that episode is worth reciting. I was padding around the old home and mill each day; while I was inspecting the big world, thereabouts, it would come noon—DINNER TIME. I was always blessed (or cursed) with a long, keen, appealing appetite. When dinner was ready, the numerous mill-hands would walk in and occupy the big long table, and eat their fill, as laborers are wont to do. I had a little bed that stood pretty high on its legs, with round posted railing all around it. I had to wait until the hands were through and gone before I could eat. During this miserable suspense, I would go and climb up into my bed (called the "big crib") and cry; because I was hungry. One day they came to me at noon and picked me up and placed me right at the first table, or service, and told me that I could eat at the first table, with the grown folks that day, because it was my birthday--that I was THREE YEARS OLD! How should I forget it? I never had another birthday until I was an old man. Birthdays, to a child, are grand occasions, because they direct his young mind to the future celebrations of the kind. But it is different in advanced years. Then, we are retrospective, thinking of the happy days, weeks, and years, gone with their pleasures, loves and joys, past opportunities gone with loved ones, never to return again.

The Three Musketeers
…....... In those toilful, youthful days, the happiest part was Saturday evening, when Sunday was at hand. Sunday was the day of Play--not Rest. On Sundays we could roam at will over hill and dale, on the streams and prairies and woods, bathe, play and gather wild fruits, hunt rabbits, squirrels and fish--just do as we pleased, frequently not coming home for dinner. Sunday was a great day, never to be overlooked. We would, sometimes, take some eggs from the barn, steal out a frying pan, some bacon or grease, go down into the deep bottom, with Watch, our dog, and he would smell up and chase a swamp rabbit into a hollow; we would kill, dress, wash and fry him and the eggs in the frying pan; and gosh, what a feast we would have, way down there, away from all control and restraint. No wonder we did not come home for dinner. Those swamp rabbits were as sweet as nice steak, and much tenderer. They were as fine meat as I ever ate. Since I have been grown, and gone from that country, I have often wanted to again eat those rabbits, and see if they are as good as of yore.
We would go to the earliest ripening wild Mulberries, or Dewberries, gather and eat them in season. We knew the places and locations of all, and the seasons of their ripening, and we were always "Johnny on the spot" to gather and devour.
We, Walter, Ben, and Jim, were the "THREE MUSKETEERS" of the Texas frontier. We would devour the plums and peaches from the orchards at home, and gather all of the wild fruits and nuts in season, including the Mustang grapes,Winter grapes, Black haws, Red haws, and bring home great sack-fuls of wild pecans, to last all winter, until they became too rancid to be palatable. We did not know how to keep them from becoming rancid.

Judge Shropshire
…...... At Lampasas that night, a tall angular man of about six feet in height, with a Roman nose and a stern look in his eyes, stepped on the train and took a seat beside me. He began talking to me very freely. As was my habit, I conversed with him, unreservedly for a while. Then he introduced himself as Pink Higgins. At first I thought that he just happened to have that Notorious Name; but he had not talked long until he began telling me of having killed some men (of course, purely in self defense), for which he had been acquitted and justified. Then I realized to whom I was talking. I had not heard of him for many years, and supposed that he was dead; but I found him very much alive and QUITE ACTIVE. While on the District bench in the plains of Texas, I think I had read of his son or relative being killed. I knew that he was a "BAD HOMBRE." Then, to add interest (and pleasure?) to the conversation, he told me that he was expecting a man to enter the train to kill him, between Lampasas and Belton and for me to watch one way and he would watch the other, describing a man he called Rasberry; and to let him know in time to be active in the exchange. Well, we reached Belton, and Mr. Rasberry did not appear; and I heartily extend my sincere gratitude to Mr. Rasberry for his absence; because I did not want to be between their crossfire nor to attend a long court session to tell what I had heard and seen. Thank you, sir.