The day had been pleasant; it was one of the last in March. The farm
work had progressed as usual. Old Kate was at the plough and Cyclops at
the wagon. Who was Cyclops? She was a large, raw-boned, gray-white
mare, whose feeding did not show well; the more oats and meal and hay
she had, the more ribs we counted in her sides--you have seen such an
animal! But she was wonderful, because she stepped longer, than any
other of the horses; worked harder without showing fatigue, and made
the nine miles to Boston in a practical if not a graceful way.
She had a fault, and horsemen had to admit it (you know they seldom
admit a fault but what is very visible). This was a visible fault, and
yet at the same time it was a want of visibility. She had but one eye.
And so Glover it was, I am quite sure, named her Cyclops.
By the by, she had one other fault that I had almost forgotten, and
that was of elevating her heels against the dashers of wagons, when she
had an ugly fit, which took place semi-occasionally, and the
peculiarity of it was that she was not particular as to time or place
where she made her exhibitions. It might be in Dock Square or State
Street, or it might be on the farm, just as all were starting out.
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