“Joe,” I said to him one morning, as he was about starting for the field, “what is the matter? You look discouraged.”
“I ain’ discouraged, so my looks is deceivin’, den; but I is kine o’ wore out in my patience.”
“Why; what about?”
“Hit’s dat ’ar Frank horse; nothin’ gwine ter do him, but he mus’ stop in de furrer, ebbery few ya’ahds, an’ tun aroun’ in de ha’ness ter look at me. ’Pears like he can’ be satisfy dat I knows my own business, but he’s got to obersee hit. Hit done gets mighty worrisome afore de day’s out,” he concluded with a heavy sigh.
“Why don’t you whip him for it?” demanded Jessie indignantly.
“W’ip nuffin’! Hes a saddle hoss; he’s nebber been call’ on fer to do such wuck afore, an’ he doan know what hit means.”
“I guess if he attended to his business he’d find out in time,” Jessie insisted. But Frank, whatever other faults he had, had none under the saddle; he was, moreover, old Joe’s especial pet. One of the work horses had died during the preceding winter, which was the reason that this one was called upon to perform labor that he evidently regarded with distrust, if not active disapproval.
So now the old man replied to Jessie’s observation with unusual sharpness:
“De whole worl’ is plum’ full ob plow hosses, so fur’s I kin see. Yo’ done meets ’em on de road, and in de chu’ch and de town meetin’s, and on de ranches; yes, sir; yo’ kin fine a plow hoss twenty times a day where yo’ meets up wid a saddle hoss once in six mont’s w’at is a saddle hoss, and not a saw-hoss wif a bridle on. Ef somebody’s got fer to poun’ dat Frank fer to make him drag a plow aroun’, hit’ll be somebody odder dan me w’at does hit! I done cut dem wicked ole clumsy blinders, w’at is a relict ob ba’barism, ef dere ebber was one, offen his bridle, so’s ’t dem bright eyes ob his’n kin see w’ats goin’ on aroun’ him, an’ now I ain’ gwine spile a good saddle hoss ter make a poor plow hoss. Hit’s too much like tryin’ ter make a eagle inter a tame ole goose,” the old man concluded soberly.
“Well, then, I suppose we’ll have to give up the fall plowing, just on account of Frank’s whims!” Jessie retorted, nettled.