“But we’ve come to it now.”
“Many a heavy load have we hauled up that rise before them.”
“Yes, I think of it often,” said the bay, “and of something else too: I think of that hard hill over across the bridge. I was not always good to you when we were climbing up that.”
“You always pulled your full share, though.”
“But I needn’t have put back my ears and snapped at you angrily every few steps.”
“Let that go; think no more of it,” said the gray.
“And not only the hill do I remember,” continued the bay, “but many a hot day on the road, while you were doing your best, I jerked in the harness and jeered at you because my nose happened to be a few inches ahead.”
“Think of the pleasant trots we had together, instead,” persisted the gray—“the gambols in the clover-field, and the rolls in the sand down beside the creek. As for the rest, they’re past and forgiven; let them be forgotten.”
“You may forgive them,” said the bay, “but I can’t forgive them myself. And now, while I stand here by your side, both of us grown old, they come back and worry me—yes, more than ever the heavy loads did, or even the driver’s whip.”