I pulled some volunteer oats and took them to give him, also some burnt cookies Grandmother gave me, as he always liked something sweet.
It was as perfect a day as you ever saw, the sky was very high and blue and there was just enough breeze blowing to move the leaves on the trees. As I came to the pasture I was slightly disappointed that Old John wasn’t at the bars to meet me. I could see, however, all the stock up under a large spreading oak that stood on top of the small rise we called “Snake Hill.” A lark was singing on top of a tree—singing as if the yellow spot on his throat would burst. I didn’t see Old John, but saw Old Charley, the yellow horse, standing with his head down. Cattle stood close and more than a hundred sheep stood silently by. Some small lambs were playing on a log near, just as small children might play at a funeral. As I came closer, I saw in the shade of a mighty oak. Old John lying dead. It seemed to be, and undoubtedly was, understood by everybody but the young lambs that there was a funeral in progress. The yellow horse stood partly over him with his nose resting on the dead horse’s shoulder. His big brown eyes
