One
day my brother and I ran away, off into the vast wilderness
that surrounded three sides of our home. We were gone a long
time, and my mother, in anticipation of our return, got down
the old quirt [whip], which had done noble duty on many previous
occasions, and sat down to her sewing to wait for us .... Finally
she saw us. We were on our way home, trudging aimlessly along
through the mesquite brush, and at the same instant that my
mother saw us she saw something else. Coming along directly
behind us was a big drove of cattle!
.
. . [T]here wasn't anything that anyone, except my brother,
could have done to save us, and strange to say he did it. He
had human intelligence. He and I saw the herd coming behind
us, and instead of trying to outrun the cattle, as I tried to
do, he grabbed me by the arm and ruthlessly dragged me into
the middle of a huge mesquite bush, where, with a million thorns
puncturing us in every direction, we remained, while about the
same number of cattle, eyes glazed and horns cracking, went
thundering past.
I say "a million went thundering by," because, although
it is probable there were only about fifteen hundred, and they
were merely trotting, they were countless to me .... In her
joy at having us restored to her, even though we were considerably
damaged by thorns, my mother forgot all about the quirt, gathered
us into her arms, wept over us, and treated us generally to
an amount of love of which we were entirely unworthy. But later
on, because my mother was always very just, she remembered that
we had something coming to us, and so, but in a modified form,
we got it before we retired.
Source:
Owen P. White, A Frontier Mother, 91-93.
