XXXII.

A low-set critter, not much account For heft or looks, but one of them sort Thet kin fetch a herd at his darn'd heels With a toss of his horns or a mite of a snort, Fur a fight or a run; an' thar wus I, Pressin' clus to the steel of his heavin' flank, An' cussin' an' shoutin'--while overhead The moon in the black clouds tremblin' sank,