He
sighed as he led her out of the rear door.
The old mare hung back, stretching first one hind leg and then the
other as old horses do when first they come from the stall in the
morning.
"Come on, you old nuisance!" exploded Cap'n Ira under his breath,
giving an impatient tug at the rope.
He did not look around at her, but set his face sternly toward the
distant lot which had once been known as the east meadow. It was no
longer in grass. Wild carrots sprang from its acidulous soil. The
herbage would scarcely have nourished sheep. There were patches of
that gray moss which blossoms with a tiny red flower, and there was
mullein and sour grass. Altogether the run-down condition of the
soil could not be mistaken by even the casual eye.
The hobbling old man and the hobbling old mare, making their way
across the bare lot, made as drab a picture in the early morning as
a Millet. At a distance their moving shapes would have seemed like
shadows only. There was no other sign of life upon Wreckers' Head.
A light but keen and salty breath blew in from the sea. Cap'n Ira
faced this breeze with twitching nostrils. The old mare's lower lip
hung down in depression. She groaned. She did not care to be led out
of her comfortable stall at this unconscionably early hour.
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