His arched
neck and slim barrel glowed like satin as the sunlight fell upon
him. His black mane flew, he shook the ground with his hoofs
playing at the halter's end. He hated a harness and once in it lost
half his conceit. But he was vainest of all things in Faraway when
we drove off with him that morning.
All roads led to Hillsborough fair time. Up and down the long hills
we went on a stiff jog passing lumber wagons with generations
enough in them to make a respectable genealogy, the old people in
chairs; light wagons that carried young men and their sweethearts,
backswoodsmen coming out in ancient vehicles upon reeling,
creaking wheels to get food for a year's reflection - all thickening
the haze of the late summer with the dust of the roads. And
Hillsborough itself was black with people. The shouts of excited
men, the neighing of horses, the bellowing of cattle, the wailing of
infants, the howling of vendors, the pressing crowd, had begun to
sow the seed of misery in the minds of those accustomed only to
the peaceful quietude of the farm.
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