THE COUNT BY BOY 35 



years ago, he had helped father clear up the 

 landscape of a pioneer farm. I saw him as my 

 own mother's pet that grew to be the mis- 

 chievous rogue that got into the pantry and ate 

 up all the pies and drank the milk, and then 

 hid in the back pasture. I saw him in the days 

 my sister Orla rode him to the Fourth of July 

 celebration, where the bass drum and the plug 

 uglies made him prance for miles, and I 

 thought of him as the friend, even the philoso- 

 pher, the teacher of children, and everything 

 that a perfect horse could be. And it seemed a 

 fitting occasion, if he had to die, to die on such 

 a perfect day, the very kind of a day he used 

 to enjoy most. 



I was some time getting away from the 

 scene and when I got to the house and ex- 

 plained the delay, it affected them all, even to 

 the hired man, who didn't like Old John be- 

 cause he got lazy in his old age. 



But in the afternoon, we hitched up to go to 

 town where I was to stay. I didn't have any 

 baggage, only a rooster that I had for a pet. 

 Grandmother had been snuffing a lot, since she 

 heard of Old John's death. She said that 

 when I went away to Silverton, she might not 



