A pony's come to our farm,
He brought a master trim and neat
And full of charm.
Alas! the master likes to lie,
He does not know that Satan waits,
And pitchforks boys to bye and bye,
Who wander out from Truth's dear gates."
I stopped short. I thought she was making too much fuss about my poor young master's pleasant stories—and what about her own made-up tales about the three other ponies in the race with us?
"What's the matter with you, boy?" she asked as she nearly plunged over my head. "Oh! you want me to go say good-night to Happy Harry—bright thought," and in a trice she was off my back and running up a path to a pretty red house.
No pony could get ahead of this girl, and I watched her as she went into the Talker home. I could see the family through the windows. Mr. and Mrs. Talker were sitting each side of an open fire, and on a lounge between them was a young man who must be Happy Harry.