It puts me in mind of catching birds by sprinklin'
salt on their tails; it's only one horse a man can ride out of half
a dozen, arter all. One has no shoes, t'other has a colt, one ain't
broke, another has a sore back, while a fifth is so etarnal cunnin',
all Cumberland couldn't catch him, till winter drives him up to the
barn for food.
"Most of them 'ere dyke marshes have what they call 'honey pots' in
'em; that is a deep hole all full of squash, where you can't find no
bottom. Well, every now and then, when a feller goes to look for his
horse, he sees his tail a-stickin' right out an eend, from one of
these honey pots, and wavin' like a head of broom corn; and sometimes
you see two or three trapped there, e'enamost smothered, everlastin'
tired, half swimmin' half wadin', like rats in a molasses cask. When
they find 'em in that 'ere pickle, they go and get ropes, and tie
'em tight round their necks, and half hang 'em to make 'em float,
and then haul 'em out. Awful lookin' critters they be, you may
depend, when they do come out; for all the world like half-drowned
kittens--all slinkey slimey, with their great long tails glued up
like a swab of oakum dipped in tar. If they don't look foolish it's
a pity! Well, they have to nurse these critters all winter, with hot
mashes, warm covering, and what not, and when spring comes, they
mostly die, and if they don't they are never no good arter.
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