“Nonsense! I’m allowed to jump all the fences I like. Whenever I see a good dinner through the bars, over I go, no matter whom it belongs to.”
“I wish I could do so,” said Brindle.
“But you can’t,” cried Crooked Horn. “I’m on my way now into yonder clover-field, over across the railroad.”
Saying which, she kicked up her heels and galloped away. But just as she reached the track an express train dashed past, and old Brindle saw the engine toss her boastful acquaintance into the air as a mad bull tosses a dog. Another moment, and poor Crooked Horn lay in the ditch mangled and dead.
“Oh,” cried Brindle, shuddering and looking down affectionately at the rope and block of wood, “how glad I am now that my master hobbled me!”
If we only knew how much worse ills our troubles save us from, we would often welcome them, instead of trying to free ourselves from them.
