| |
|
Once when the
snow of the year was beginning to fall,
We stopped by
a mountain pasture to say 'Whose colt?'
A little
Morgan had one forefoot on the wall,
The other curled
at his breast. He dipped his head
And snorted at us.
And then he had to bolt.
We heard the miniature
thunder where he fled,
And we saw him, or thought we
saw him, dim and grey,
Like a shadow against the
curtain of falling flakes.
'I think the little
fellow's afraid of the snow.
He isn't winter-broken.
It isn't play
With the little fellow at all. He's
running away.
I doubt if even his mother could tell
him, "Sakes,
It's only weather". He'd think she
didn't know !
Where is his mother? He can't be out
alone.'
And now he comes again with a clatter of
stone
And mounts the wall again with whited eyes
And all his tail that isn't hair up straight.
He
shudders his coat as if to throw off flies.
'Whoever
it is that leaves him out so late,
When other
creatures have gone to stall and bin,
Ought to be
told to come and take him in.'
|
|
|
