The flies were nearly eating him up. Then he'd start a
little. Mrs. Maxwell had a weight at his head to hold him, but he could
easily have dragged that. He was a good dispositioned horse, and he
didn't want to run away, but he could not stand still. I soon jumped up
and slapped him, and rubbed him till my hands were dripping wet. The
poor brute was so grateful and would keep touching my arm with his nose.
Mrs. Maxwell sat under the trees fanning herself and laughing at me, but
I didn't care. How could I enjoy myself with a dumb creature writhing in
pain before me?
"A docked horse can neither eat nor sleep comfortably in the fly season.
In one of our New England villages they have a sign up, 'Horses taken in
to grass. Long tails, one dollar and fifty cents. Short tails, one
dollar.' And it just means that the short-tailed ones are taken cheaper,
because they are so bothered by the flies that they can't eat much,
while the long-tailed ones are able to brush them away, and eat in
peace. I read the other day of a Buffalo coal dealer's horse that was in
such an agony through flies, that he committed suicide. You know animals
will do that.
Pages:
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330