There was a day at Kruger's Post when everything 

 seemed small beside the figure of one black front ox, 

 who held his ground when all others failed. The 

 waggon had sunk to the bed-plank in gluey turf, and, 

 although the whole load had been taken off, three 

 spans linked together failed to move it. For eight 

 hours that day we tried to dig and pull it out, but 

 forty-four oxen on that soft greasy flat toiled in vain. 

 The long string of bullocks, desperate from failure 

 and bewilderment, swayed in the middle from side to 

 side to seek escape from the flying whips ; the un- 

 yielding waggon held them at one end, and the front 

 oxen, with their straining forefeet scoring the slippery 

 surface as they were dragged backwards, strove to hold 

 them true at the other. Seven times that day we 

 changed, trying to find a mate who would stand with 

 Zwaartland ; but he wore them all down. He broke 

 their hearts and stood it out alone ! I looked at the 

 ground afterwards : it was grooved in long parallel lines 

 where the swaying spans had pulled him backwards, with 

 his four feet clawing the ground in the effort to hold 

 them true ; but he had never once turned or wavered. 



And there was a day at Sand River, when we saw 

 a different picture. The waggons were empty, yet 

 as we came up out of the stony drift, Bantom the 

 sulky hung lazily back, dragging on his yoke and throw- 

 ing the span out of line. Jim curled the big whip 

 round him, without any good effect, and when the 

 span stopped for a breather in the deep narrow road, 

 he lay down and refused to budge. There was no reason 

 in the world for it except 

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