I was running down one of the steep side streets that led to the water
when I met a heavily-laden cart coming up. It must have been coming from
one of the vessels, for it was full of strange-looking boxes and
packages. A fine-looking nervous horse was drawing it, and he was
straining every nerve to get it up the steep hill. His driver was a
burly, hard-faced man, and instead of letting his horse stop a minute to
rest he kept urging him forward. The poor horse kept looking at his
master, his eyes almost starting from his head in terror. He knew that
the whip was about to descend on his quivering body. And so it did, and
there was no one by to interfere. No one but a woman in a ragged shawl
who would have no influence with the driver. There was a very good
humane society in Fairport, and none of the teamsters dared ill-use
their horses if any of the members were near. This was a quiet
out-of-the-way street, with only poor houses on it, and the man probably
knew that none of the members of the society would be likely to be
living in them. He whipped his horse, and whipped him, till every lash
made my heart ache, and if I had dared I would have bitten him severely.
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