I can truthfully say that my entire life has been spent with cattle.Even during my four years' service in the Confederate army, thegreater portion was spent with the commissary department, in charge ofits beef supplies. I was wounded early in the second year of the warand disabled as a soldier, but rather than remain at home I accepteda menial position under a quartermaster. Those were strenuous times.During Lee's invasion of Pennsylvania we followed in the wake of thearmy with over a thousand cattle, and after Gettysburg we led theretreat with double that number. Near the close of the war wefrequently had no cattle to hold, and I became little more than acamp-follower.I was born in the Shenandoah Valley, northern Virginia, May 3, 1840.My father was a thrifty planter and stockman, owned a few slaves, andas early as I can remember fed cattle every winter for the easternmarkets. Grandfather Anthony, who died before I was born, was aScotchman who had emigrated to the Old Dominion at an early day, and acquired several large tracts of land on an affluent of theShenandoah. On my paternal side I never knew any of my ancestors, buthave good cause to believe they were adventurers. My mother's maidenname was Reed; she was of a gentle family, who were able to tracetheir forbears beyond the colonial days, even to the gentry ofEngland. Generations of good birth were reflected in my mother;and across a rough and eventful life I can distinctly remember therefinement of her manners, her courtesy to guests, her kindness tochild and slave.My boyhood days were happy ones. I attended a subscription schoolseveral miles from home, riding back and forth on a pony. The studieswere elementary, and though I never distinguished myself in myclasses, I was always ready to race my pony, and never refused to playtruant when the swimming was good. Evidently my father never intendedany of his boys for a professional career, though it was an earnesthope of my mother that all of us should receive a college education.My elder brother and I early developed business instincts, buyingcalves and accompanying our father on his trading expeditions. Onceduring a vacation, when we were about twelve and ten years old, bothof us crossed the mountains with him into what is now West Virginia, where he bought about two hundred young steers and drove them back toour home in the valley. I must have been blessed with an unfailingmemory; over fifty years have passed since that, my first trip fromhome, yet I remember it vividly--can recall conversations between myfather and the sellers as they haggled over the cattle. I remember themoney, gold and silver, with which to pay for the steers, was carriedby my father in ordinary saddle-bags thrown across his saddle. Asoccasion demanded, frequently the funds were carried by a negro man ofours, and at night, when among acquaintances, the heavy saddle-bagswere thrown into a corner, every one aware of their contents.But the great event of my boyhood was a trip to Baltimore. There wasno railroad at the time, and as that was our market for fat cattle, it was necessary to drive the entire way. My father had made the tripyearly since I could remember, the distance being nearly two hundredmiles, and generally carrying as many as one hundred and fifty bigbeeves. They traveled slowly, pasturing or feeding grain on the way, in order that the cattle should arrive at the market in salablecondition. One horse was allowed with the herd, and on another myfather rode, far in advance, to engage pasture or feed and shelter forhis men. When on the road a boy always led a gentle ox in the lead ofthe beeves; negro men walked on either flank, and the horseman broughtup the rear. I used to envy the boy leading the ox, even though he wasa da