The expense of buying coal on the farm for winter heat and summer cooking was often avoided by father's going some miles away to the west to "clear off" land for the wood which was on it. When I was older I used to like to go and help chop. It was great fun to ride on the running gears of the wagon, chop wood till noon, eat dinner by the brush fire with Papa, and chop till evening when we would haul the wood home.
One cold winter day I did not go. Father went and arrived home rather late in the evening. On the way home he had stopped at the house of Mr. Teller and got a tiny puppy of no special variety, black and white as to face and neck. Father wore a big overcoat and had the puppy in the side pocket. The front paws rested on the edge of the coat pocket. He blinked in the lamp light as he looked soberly from one to the other of the family group. We were all in a state of ecstasy over him and someone asked "What shall we call him?" Someone else at the same time asked "Where did you get him?" "At Mr. Teller's," answered father. Mr. Teller had a fellow working for him who was known as "Tink" Woolsey. "Oh , let's call' him 'Tink, '" said someone. And according to the free and easy way of naming livestock, "Tink" he was. You might have suggested after that all the aristocratic names found in all the records of thoroughbreds the world over, but this particular dog would still have been "Tink” and so he was until the day of his death, of which tragic day I must tell later.