Those Who Live in the Country 21 



story as I have language to relate it, and I recall it 

 for the reason that the modern farmer's son doesn't 

 have any such fun in these artificial and prosaic 

 days and also that I've always loved an ox-team 

 since that, to me, historic occasion. I used to 

 linger over that passage in history, as a school- 

 boy, about the great Eoman general, Cincinnatus, 

 leaving his plough team — of oxen — standing in the 

 furrow and hurrying off to take command of 

 the Imperial City's legions. I used to think it was 

 real unkind to the ' ' critters ' ' that he hadn 't turned 

 them out to pasture, but I also felt that a man who 

 could manage a team of oxen well was fitted to 

 lead men or do most any other odd job that might 

 happen along. 



I pride myself on knowing a thing or two about 

 oxen first-hand. I've helped break them to the 

 yoke and I've also ''driv" them many, many 

 weary miles. Countless volumes have been writ- 

 ten about the horse, and I remember that Bill 

 Nye, the humourist, once addressed an ''Apos- 

 trophe to an Orphan Mule." Wish I could recall 

 the whole poem, but my memory has slipped a 

 cog. It runs: 



"Sing on, oh mule and warble in the twilight 

 gray." 



But somehow or other the ox does not occupy 

 the place in literature that its importance seems 

 to demand, at least not to those who know and 

 appreciate that kindly, thoughtful and also, at 

 times obstreperous animal. It is true it has had 



