I had forgotten them. It was dark and I heard an owl screech up in the orchard. Shedding tears didn’t save me, I was ordered to the barn to get Old John. I had both hands clenched tight in his mane. I knew he was tracking the sheep. Presently from out the dark ahead I could hear the bell; then I knew that they would start straight for the barn, which they did. Once back in the stall I hugged Old John, the tears on my cheeks had dried with fright, and after a footbath I was in bed, safe from an awful, dark night, a coyote, and some barn and timber owls.
But Old John and I had some pleasant times; our associations were not all ghastly. In the summer we used to buck straw from the threshing machine; when there were picnics I used to braid his mane and tail the day before. Then when I rode to the picnic with his kinky mane, both of us used to enjoy it, and he especially seemed to know how pretty he looked. But some way he was always so glad to get home; he didn’t seem like another horse, he just seemed like one of the family, and the only time it took a man to handle him was when we went to the State Fair at Salem.
