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It was an idle enough kind of job.
All I had to do was to walk alongside my horse, a big white beast
with no joints at all except where its legs were hinged to the
backbone, back it up to the pit, and dump the load. But, walking
so in the autumn sun; I fell a-dreaming. I forgot claybank and pit.
I was back in the old town--saw her play among the timber. I met
her again on the Long Bridge. I held her hands once more in that
last meeting--the while I was mechanically backing my load up to
the pit and making ready to dump it. Day-dreams are out of place in
a brickyard. I forgot to take out the tail-board. To my amazement,
I beheld the old horse skating around, making frantic efforts to
keep its grip on the soil, then slowly rise before my bewildered
gaze, clawing feebly at the air as it went up and over, backwards
into the pit, load, cart and all.
I wish for my own reputation that I could truly say I wept for
the poor beast. I am sure I felt for it, but the reproachful look
it gave me as it lay there on its back, its four feet pointing
skyward, was too much.


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