" Dad wished to have such a horse. Smith offered to exchange for our
roan saddle mare--one we found running in the lane, and advertised as
being in our paddock, and no one claimed it. Dad exchanged.
He yoked the new horse to the plough, and it took to the furrow
splendidly--but that was all; it did n't take to anything else. Dad
gripped the handles--"Git up!" he said, and tapped Smith's horse with the
rein. Smith's horse pranced and marked time well, but did n't tighten the
chains. Dad touched him again. Then he stood on his fore-legs and threw
about a hundredweight of mud that clung to his heels at Dad's head. That
aggravated Dad, and he seized the plough-scraper, and, using both hands,
calmly belted Smith's horse over the ribs for two minutes, by the sun.
He tried him again. The horse threw himself down in the furrow. Dad took
the scraper again, welted him on the rump, dug it into his back-bone,
prodded him in the side, then threw it at him disgustedly. Then Dad sat
down awhile and breathed heavily. He rose again and pulled Smith's horse
by the head. He was pulling hard when Dave and Joe came up. Joe had a
bow-and-arrow in his hand, and said!, "He's a good furrer 'orse, eh, Dad?
Smith SAID you could n't pull him out of it.
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