colt.
"Don't need a halter yet," the man said. "Y'won't need one for a couple months at least."
Tom raised the envelope he held in his hand. "Jimmy Creech wrote—" he began.
Uncle Wilmer shook his head so severely that the battered hat toppled from his head. Bending down to pick it up, he muttered, "Jimmy Creech. All I hear from you is Jimmy Creech."
Tom said nothing, and his uncle turned to look at the horses.
Shrugging his shoulders, Uncle Wilmer continued, "If it was my colt instead of Jimmy Creech's, I'd—" He paused and, shaking his head again, added, "But it ain't. I got a pony halter you can use. It'll fit him. You won't find anything better in town."
Tom waited while his uncle went into the barn and came out again, carrying the halter.
There was an unusual gleam in Uncle Wilmer's eyes as he tossed the halter to Tom, saying, "You go ahead, then."
Tom felt the leather and found it soft. Jimmy had said a web halter, if he could get one, but certainly this would do until he was able to find a web halter.
But
, he decided,
I'd better punch a couple more holes so I can make it smaller; the colt's head isn't very big
. Turning to his uncle, he asked him for his jackknife and Uncle Wilmer produced it from his pocket. .
"I'll do it," Uncle Wilmer said. "You just hold the strap up against the fence here."
The man made several attempts to locate the strap before the point of his knife sunk into the leather. "Eyesight ain't what it used to be," he muttered. "I remember the day when out huntin' I could pick off a rabbit over two hundred yards—" His voice descended to the depths of his chest, and Tom turned to look at the colt.
There was a flurry of flashing legs as the colt once again dashed about the paddock, while his mother remained still, grazing, with only an occasional look at him. Taking too sharp a corner, the colt stumbled and went down hard. He lay still for a few seconds, then raised his head, looking dazed and a little surprised by his sudden collapse. He pulled his forelegs up and then just sat there, still looking about him. Finally he uttered a short snicker, his hind legs came up, and once more he was on his way, madly encircling the paddock, pausing only occasionally to rear upon his hind legs and paw the air with his forehoofs like a boxer feinting a blow.
"There it be," Uncle Wilmer said, finishing his job.
Taking the small halter, Tom climbed through the bars of the paddock fence.
The colt stopped playing and stood still when he saw him.
Tom moved forward, calling to the colt. He had gone only a few yards when he stopped, hoping the colt would come to him.
The forelegs were spread far apart, the big and fuzzy eyes upon him. There was a moment's hesitation, then the colt was moving slowly toward him.
For a few minutes Tom remained still, only talking to the colt; then, slowly, he raised the halter.
There was a quick, sudden movement as the colt pulled back, startled by the leather that had touched him. Twirling, he ran to his mother and hid behind her.
Tom heard his uncle's deep chuckle, then, "Grab him, Tom. You ain't goin' to get it on him that way."
Tom walked slowly toward the mare. He touched Jimmy Creech's letter in his pocket. Jimmy had said, "You got to be patient with him. You got to work slow."
The Queen raised her head to look at him. She pushed her muzzle into his hand, and finding nothing to eat turned back to her grazing. The colt was on the other side of her, and Tom walked around, only to have the colt move quickly beneath his mother's whisking tail and away from him.
Tom waited a few minutes before following him. The colt knew something was going to be done to him and he was going to avoid it if he could. Tom held out a handful of crushed oats. But the colt ignored the feed, sweeping beneath the mare's belly to reach the other side of her.
The Queen saw the feed and reached for it. Tom let her have it, hoping the colt too would show an interest and come to him. But he
"Don't need a halter yet," the man said. "Y'won't need one for a couple months at least."
Tom raised the envelope he held in his hand. "Jimmy Creech wrote—" he began.
Uncle Wilmer shook his head so severely that the battered hat toppled from his head. Bending down to pick it up, he muttered, "Jimmy Creech. All I hear from you is Jimmy Creech."
Tom said nothing, and his uncle turned to look at the horses.
Shrugging his shoulders, Uncle Wilmer continued, "If it was my colt instead of Jimmy Creech's, I'd—" He paused and, shaking his head again, added, "But it ain't. I got a pony halter you can use. It'll fit him. You won't find anything better in town."
Tom waited while his uncle went into the barn and came out again, carrying the halter.
There was an unusual gleam in Uncle Wilmer's eyes as he tossed the halter to Tom, saying, "You go ahead, then."
Tom felt the leather and found it soft. Jimmy had said a web halter, if he could get one, but certainly this would do until he was able to find a web halter.
But
, he decided,
I'd better punch a couple more holes so I can make it smaller; the colt's head isn't very big
. Turning to his uncle, he asked him for his jackknife and Uncle Wilmer produced it from his pocket. .
"I'll do it," Uncle Wilmer said. "You just hold the strap up against the fence here."
The man made several attempts to locate the strap before the point of his knife sunk into the leather. "Eyesight ain't what it used to be," he muttered. "I remember the day when out huntin' I could pick off a rabbit over two hundred yards—" His voice descended to the depths of his chest, and Tom turned to look at the colt.
There was a flurry of flashing legs as the colt once again dashed about the paddock, while his mother remained still, grazing, with only an occasional look at him. Taking too sharp a corner, the colt stumbled and went down hard. He lay still for a few seconds, then raised his head, looking dazed and a little surprised by his sudden collapse. He pulled his forelegs up and then just sat there, still looking about him. Finally he uttered a short snicker, his hind legs came up, and once more he was on his way, madly encircling the paddock, pausing only occasionally to rear upon his hind legs and paw the air with his forehoofs like a boxer feinting a blow.
"There it be," Uncle Wilmer said, finishing his job.
Taking the small halter, Tom climbed through the bars of the paddock fence.
The colt stopped playing and stood still when he saw him.
Tom moved forward, calling to the colt. He had gone only a few yards when he stopped, hoping the colt would come to him.
The forelegs were spread far apart, the big and fuzzy eyes upon him. There was a moment's hesitation, then the colt was moving slowly toward him.
For a few minutes Tom remained still, only talking to the colt; then, slowly, he raised the halter.
There was a quick, sudden movement as the colt pulled back, startled by the leather that had touched him. Twirling, he ran to his mother and hid behind her.
Tom heard his uncle's deep chuckle, then, "Grab him, Tom. You ain't goin' to get it on him that way."
Tom walked slowly toward the mare. He touched Jimmy Creech's letter in his pocket. Jimmy had said, "You got to be patient with him. You got to work slow."
The Queen raised her head to look at him. She pushed her muzzle into his hand, and finding nothing to eat turned back to her grazing. The colt was on the other side of her, and Tom walked around, only to have the colt move quickly beneath his mother's whisking tail and away from him.
Tom waited a few minutes before following him. The colt knew something was going to be done to him and he was going to avoid it if he could. Tom held out a handful of crushed oats. But the colt ignored the feed, sweeping beneath the mare's belly to reach the other side of her.
The Queen saw the feed and reached for it. Tom let her have it, hoping the colt too would show an interest and come to him. But he
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