more than anything else, had brought his cramps to an end.
He forgot his pains quickly. Now his small, fine head was raised high, sniffing the air, his nostrils quivering. He continued walking in a northerly direction, his ears pointed and alert to new and strange sounds … monotonous and low scraping notes, sharp staccato calls, and, in the distance, a forlorn and dismalhowl. The howl came again, wailing in the wind. He was interested, but unafraid. He had known the great solitude of the wild in another land. Now he was entering a new and strange and beautiful country, but it held no terrors for him. He was alone and free. He remembered nothing of his domestic life, of barns or farms, or a boy who loved him. Before him was a world as thrilling, exciting and as wild as he.
Presently he came out of the woods to more open country. Yet he did not break from his walk, for the land before him was rocky and crisscrossed with gorges and canyons. For a long while he carefully made his way about the splintered rock that was merciless to his unshod feet. He came to a stop in a low-walled canyon, and his gaze traveled to the long black line of trees above the bared rims and crags of stone. He turned his head back in the direction from which he’d come.
He stood as still as the stone about him. For some time he kept sniffing the air; then he began walking again. No longer did he travel to the north, but back to the south. He entered a cleft in another canyon that took him through rotting cliffs. It cut down deep into the earth, and his path was strewn with gravel and rocks. Yet he never faltered, for his wild instinct told him this new trail would take him to the softer country beyond.
An hour later he came to the woods again, but at a point much farther away than where he had entered the gutted terrain. His great body trembled in his excitement at being able to choose any trail that beckoned him. He listened to the wind as it roared andlulled through the trees. He began climbing, his unerring instinct telling him of the pure running water and succulent grasses of the wilder ranges above. He was aware of the gray shadows that trailed him during his ascent. He was wary, but unafraid. He had the utmost confidence in his speed and endurance and cunning.
Throughout the rest of the night he traveled ever upward, and the air became clearer, sharper. Yet his climb was a gradual one, never steep. The pine trees still hemmed him in, affording him no outlook from his mountain threshold. It was almost morning when he came to the small meadow so typical of those he had known in the high country of his desert homeland. His shrill neigh echoed the profound joy that shook his body. He ran for the first time in many hours, and his long limbs carried him beautifully and swiftly across the carpet of short, thick grass.
Finally he stopped running to taste the pure water from rushing streams, to savor the cold air in his nostrils, and then finally to graze upon the wild grasses he loved. The few hours left of the night were spent on a bed of these grasses, fresh and sweet-scented. He rested with eyes closed, but his ears and nostrils remained alert, ready to catch the slightest noise or faintest scent.
With the first hour of grayness he was on his way once more, leaving the mountain valley to its solitude. High above him rose range after range, tier upon tier of cloud-shattering peaks, some snow-clad, and others bare and sheer. But the stallion had no use for the world above the timberline, a world consisting only of rock and snow and sky.
He trotted easily through the great woods, his hoofs making no sound on the springy cushion of pine needles. He no longer was slowed to a walk, for with the light of day he was able to choose his way easily through the aisles of trees. Why he ran when he had nowhere to go didn’t puzzle him. He ran because he loved to run, and some natural instinct kept him traveling ever southward. Flocks of birds rose from
He forgot his pains quickly. Now his small, fine head was raised high, sniffing the air, his nostrils quivering. He continued walking in a northerly direction, his ears pointed and alert to new and strange sounds … monotonous and low scraping notes, sharp staccato calls, and, in the distance, a forlorn and dismalhowl. The howl came again, wailing in the wind. He was interested, but unafraid. He had known the great solitude of the wild in another land. Now he was entering a new and strange and beautiful country, but it held no terrors for him. He was alone and free. He remembered nothing of his domestic life, of barns or farms, or a boy who loved him. Before him was a world as thrilling, exciting and as wild as he.
Presently he came out of the woods to more open country. Yet he did not break from his walk, for the land before him was rocky and crisscrossed with gorges and canyons. For a long while he carefully made his way about the splintered rock that was merciless to his unshod feet. He came to a stop in a low-walled canyon, and his gaze traveled to the long black line of trees above the bared rims and crags of stone. He turned his head back in the direction from which he’d come.
He stood as still as the stone about him. For some time he kept sniffing the air; then he began walking again. No longer did he travel to the north, but back to the south. He entered a cleft in another canyon that took him through rotting cliffs. It cut down deep into the earth, and his path was strewn with gravel and rocks. Yet he never faltered, for his wild instinct told him this new trail would take him to the softer country beyond.
An hour later he came to the woods again, but at a point much farther away than where he had entered the gutted terrain. His great body trembled in his excitement at being able to choose any trail that beckoned him. He listened to the wind as it roared andlulled through the trees. He began climbing, his unerring instinct telling him of the pure running water and succulent grasses of the wilder ranges above. He was aware of the gray shadows that trailed him during his ascent. He was wary, but unafraid. He had the utmost confidence in his speed and endurance and cunning.
Throughout the rest of the night he traveled ever upward, and the air became clearer, sharper. Yet his climb was a gradual one, never steep. The pine trees still hemmed him in, affording him no outlook from his mountain threshold. It was almost morning when he came to the small meadow so typical of those he had known in the high country of his desert homeland. His shrill neigh echoed the profound joy that shook his body. He ran for the first time in many hours, and his long limbs carried him beautifully and swiftly across the carpet of short, thick grass.
Finally he stopped running to taste the pure water from rushing streams, to savor the cold air in his nostrils, and then finally to graze upon the wild grasses he loved. The few hours left of the night were spent on a bed of these grasses, fresh and sweet-scented. He rested with eyes closed, but his ears and nostrils remained alert, ready to catch the slightest noise or faintest scent.
With the first hour of grayness he was on his way once more, leaving the mountain valley to its solitude. High above him rose range after range, tier upon tier of cloud-shattering peaks, some snow-clad, and others bare and sheer. But the stallion had no use for the world above the timberline, a world consisting only of rock and snow and sky.
He trotted easily through the great woods, his hoofs making no sound on the springy cushion of pine needles. He no longer was slowed to a walk, for with the light of day he was able to choose his way easily through the aisles of trees. Why he ran when he had nowhere to go didn’t puzzle him. He ran because he loved to run, and some natural instinct kept him traveling ever southward. Flocks of birds rose from
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