I vow I've larfed afore now
till I have fairly wet myself a-cryin', to see one of these folks
catch a horse: may be he has to go two or three miles of an arrand.
Well, down he goes on the dyke with a bridle in one hand, and an old
tin pan in another, full of oats, to catch his beast. First he goes
to one flock of horses, and then to another, to see if he can find
his own critter. At last he gets sight on him, and goes softly up to
him, shakin' of his oats, and a-coaxin' him, and jist as he goes to
put his hand upon him, away he starts all head and tail, and the rest
with him: that starts another flock, and they set a third off, and
at last every troop on 'em goes, as if Old Nick was arter them, till
they amount to two or three hundred in a drove. Well, he chases them
clear across the Tantramer marsh, seven miles good, over ditches,
creeks, mire holes, and flag ponds, and then they turn and take a
fair chase for it back again, seven miles more. By this time, I
presume, they are all pretty considerably well tired, and Bluenose,
he goes and gets up all the men folks in the neighbourhood, and
catches his beast, as they do a moose arter he is fairly run down;
so he runs fourteen miles, to ride two, because he is in a tarnation
hurry. It's e'enamost equal to eatin' soup with a fork, when you are
short of time.
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