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Updated: June 19, 2025
Presumably these sorry crow-baits, which drooped and limped about the barren railroad yards at the back of the siding where the shell loaders squatted, had been whole-skinned and sound of wind and joint in early August. Two months of service had turned them into gaunt wrecks. Their ribs stuck through their hollow sides.
Men tried half a dozen times a day to trade me out of my bay mare Fanny, or my sorrel mare Flora they said I ought to match up with two of a color; and the crow-baits offered me would have stocked a horse-ranch.
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