He’s broken his harness, Buzdil!
He’d plunge in a hedge,
Or back on a ledge,
But when urged to go on—he stood still!
‘He puzzles his syce, Buzdil, Buzdil,
He worries his syce, Buzdil!
If you take my advice,
He’ll be sold in a trice,
Ere our poor Mission ladies he kill!’
Miss Tucker planned starting ‘a very sober, safe kind of vehicle’ to carry to Church those who could not or might not walk so far, even in cold weather. It was to be a cart, with a cover to ward off the heat of the sun, and was to be drawn by bullocks,—a humble conveyance, which fact was no trouble at all to the mind of Charlotte Tucker. The more humble, the better fitted in her estimation for a Mission Miss Sahiba!