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Updated: September 22, 2025
Wilson Steer's picture seemed to me the best in the place, just because Mr. Steer has eyes with which, not only to see, but to feel. To see is something; Mr. Steer also feels for what he sees; and this emotion is the point of departure for his pictures.
Kenric asked whether the thief had driven the young ox away or carried it, and explained that the stealing of such prey as required to be driven was a higher offence than if it were carried off. A witness then proved that the thief, being a strong man, had bound the steer's legs with thongs and thrown the animal over his shoulder, and so made off with it.
The biggest brother's attention was given to the bison only an instant. For a long-horned steer collided with a hind wheel and a horse came dashing against the blue mare. He guided the buckboard nearer the rails to avoid the horse and reached round to hammer with his hat the steer's nose, which was thrust almost against the seat.
This time, while it struggled on the ground, Randerson gave the rope a quick flirt, making undulation that ran from his hand to the loop around the steer's leg, loosening it. And when the beast again scrambled to its feet it trotted off, free, head and tail in the air, grunting with relief. A few minutes later Randerson loped Patches toward her, coiling his rope, a grin on his face.
Steer's drawing does not suggest a future draughtsman seems to matter little, for we remember that colour, and not form, is the impulse that urges and inspires him. Mr. Steer draws well enough to take a high place if he can overcome more serious defects. His greatest peril seems to me to be an uncontrollable desire to paint in the style of the last man whose work has interested him.
"Alf, is the shot gun loaded?" he asked, brushing himself. "Yes, sir. Why?" We looked at the old fellow, wondering what he meant, but he made no explanation. Alf repeated his question. "Why?" And the old man exclaimed: "Oh, nothin'. Jest goin' to blow that red steer's head off, that's all. Confound his hide. I wish I may die this minute if I ever had sich a jolt in my life.
The truck patch would be dug on the right, the clearing widen rod by rod. From Alderwith's meadows came the soft blowing of a steer's nostrils, while the persistent piping of the frogs in the hollows fluctuated in his depressed consciousness. Calvin had drawn rein and sat on his horse in the road.
He was like a mesmerized creature, who can only obey the force of a directing will; but under pretense of handling the steer's harness, he got stiffly to the ground to look at his mistress. He could not turn to face her, as he sat in the cart; he could not drive any longer and feel her there behind him. The silence was too great.
But his voice was sharp, and it rang like the beat of a hammer upon metal: "Get on your horse!" There was no refusing that voice, and Ruth turned and ran toward her pony, with something of the confusion and guilt that overtakes a recreant child scolded by its parent. She was scarcely in the saddle when she turned to watch Randerson. He was pulling the loop from the steer's head.
She caught a glimpse of Randerson's profile as he swept into a circle and threw his rope. There must be no missing there was none. The sinuous loop went out, fell over the steer's head. Thereafter there was a smother of dust in which the girl could see some wildly waving limbs. Outside of the smother she saw the pony swing off for a short distance and stiffen its legs.
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