when a fat delivery animal stopped in front of the house one day I couldn’t resist the temptation to get on his back. The curb and the shafts of the wagon harness enabled me to mount. Though I had to be lifted down, I lived for the next experience of the kind. It came through my making the acquaintance of two girls whose father had a butcher shop. Occasionally, when deliveries were not pressing, the girls were allowed to ride the horses who pulled the wagons. They were slightly antique and not exactly the type one would choose in saddle horses. However, there was one heavy-footed sorrel who had evidently had a youth for he bucked with delightful determination for no reason at all. This horse opened vistas of pleasure for me.
Why grandmother didn’t wish me to ride I don’t know, as my mother had been a beautiful and enthusiastic horsewoman. Perhaps the anxiety and grey hairs she had caused spoiled my chances. Anyway, all my arguments about good stalls going to waste in the barn (except the one occupied by a fierce black and white cow) got me nowhere. Instead, for animals I had to be content, officially at least, with the two cast-iron dogs which sat in the front yard and were patient.
Like many middle western families, we trundled off to a lake (and ours happened to be in Minnesota) for the summer. There another horse entered my life. He was an Indian pony of probably twelve years, but still spry. He could be bribed by cookies to do almost anything. No saddle was
