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 more her maouth than her manners stands in her light—there ain't a horse on this farm that ain't a woman's horse, an' proud of it. An' this yer hog-spavined Kansas sunflower goes up an' daown the length o' the country, traded off and traded on, boastin' as he 's shed women—an' childern. I don't say as a woman in a buggy ain't a fool. I don't say as she ain't the lastin'est kind er fool, ner I don't say a child ain't worse—spattin' the lines an' standin' up an' hollerin'—but I do say, 't ain't none of our business to shed 'em daown the road."

"We don't," said the Deacon. "The baby tried to git some o' my tail for a sooveneer last fall when I was up to the haouse, an' I did n't kick. Boney's talk ain't goin' to hurt us any. We ain't colts."

"Thet 's what you think. Bimeby you git into a tight corner, 'Lection day er Valley Fair, like 's not, daown-taown, when you 're all het an' lathery, an' pestered with flies, an' thirsty, an' sick o' bein' worked in an' aout 'tween buggies. Then somethin' whispers inside o' your winkers, bringin' up all that talk abaout servitood an' inalienable truck an' sech like, an' jest then a Militia gun goes off, er your wheels hit, an'—waal, you 're only another horse ez can't be trusted. I 've been there time an' again. Boys—fer I 've seen you all bought er broke—on my solemn repitation fer a three-minute clip, I ain't givin' you no bran-mash o' my own fixin'. I 'm tellin' you my experiences, an' I 've had ez heavy a load an' ez high a check 's any horse here. I wuz born with a splint on my near fore ez big 's a walnut, an' the cussed, three-cornered Hambletonian temper that sours up an' curdles daown ez you git older. I 've