The horse was rearing and plunging, and the man was
beating him furiously with a buggy-whip. When he saw us, he flushed a
fiery red, and, as he passed, held the reins with one hand, at some risk
to his safety, lifted his hat, and bowed somewhat constrainedly as the
horse darted by us, still panting and snorting with fear.
"He looks as though he were ashamed of himself," I observed.
"I'm sure he ought to be," exclaimed my wife indignantly. "I think
there is no worse sin and no more disgraceful thing than cruelty."
"I quite agree with you," I assented.
"A man w'at 'buses his hoss is gwine ter be ha'd on de folks w'at wuks
fer 'im," remarked Julius. "Ef young Mistah McLean doan min', he'll hab
a bad dream one er dese days, des lack 'is grandaddy had way back
yander, long yeahs befo' de wah."
"What was it about Mr. McLean's dream, Julius?" I asked. The man had not
yet finished cleaning the spring, and we might as well put in time
listening to Julius as in any other way. We had found some of his
plantation tales quite interesting.
"Mars Jeems McLean," said Julius, "wuz de grandaddy er dis yer gent'eman
w'at is des gone by us beatin' his hoss.
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