Just before I left Dreibeck for ‘High’ school in our largest market town twenty five miles away, Mustard died, and my father was most distressed. He decided to bury his devoted old dog in the orchard under a gnarled old apple tree, where he had built a rough wooden seat. Here he would often sit with Mustard at his feet, his head resting on his front paws looking up at father, who often composed and wrote out his poems there. This was the only writing he ever did.

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Father’s poem of Cottardale describing the amusing incidents that had taken place at various farms was always sung at our various concerts and was one of the high lights. We practically knew what was coming, and who would participate.