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Updated: May 6, 2025
When touched with the rein he would stand and wait until the old furrow-horse put in a few steps; then plunge to get ahead of him, and if a chain or a swingle-tree or something else did n't break, and Dave kept the plough in, he ripped and tore along in style, bearing in and bearing out, and knocking the old horse about till that much-enduring animal became as cranky as himself, and the pace terrible.
At length he unharnessed the brute as it lay pulled the winkers off, hurled them at its head, kicked it once twice three times and the furrow-horse jumped up, trotted away triumphantly, and joyously rolled in the dam where all our water came from, drinking-water included. Dad went straightaway to Smith's place, and told Smith he was a dirty, mean, despicable swindler or something like that.
So we began to prepare the soil for another crop of corn, and Dad started over the same old ground with the same old plough. How I remember that old, screwed and twisted plough! The land was very hard, and the horses out of condition. We wanted a furrow-horse. Smith had one a good one. "Put him in the furrow," he said to Dad, "and you can't PULL him out of it." Dad wished to have such a horse.
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