the virtue of the yard might, had we but known, have been purchased.

High and strong, and especially ponderous where it was weak, the yard
was at last ready. The next process was to induce Christmas to enter it.
We had another horse, Jonah, the nervous, stupid, vexatious skew-ball. In
the absence of saddle and bridle, Tom deemed it wise not to attempt to
round up Christmas. I admired his wisdom without exactly committing
myself, and we resorted to strategy.

Naturally Christmas is inquisitive. He watched the building of the yard
so intently that we half expected his curiosity might prompt him to try
if it were adapted to his tastes and requirements. But when we chuckled
and coaxed he grew suspicious, behaved quite disdainfully with his heels,
and took a marine excursion to a neighbouring island. When he came back
after three days, a banana tempted him. He was a prisoner before he
realised. We giggled. The next thing was to rope him. Our perversity
converted a trustful, gentle creature temporarily into a ramping rogue.
Twice he snapped a new Manilla rope of like make and dimensions to that
which is used in the harpooning of whales. For two days the conflict
continued. Sullen and suspicious, Christmas ate scantily of the green
grass we cut for him and drank from a bucket when we were not looking.
At last a crisis came. Tom lassooed him once more. Nelly (Tom's spouse)
assisted me to take up the slack round a blockwood tree as Tom
cautiously, but with great demonstrations of evil intentions, hunted the
weary horse into the corner, where we designed to so jam him that a
halter might be put on with a minimum of risk to ourselves. Christmas
made a supreme effort. He roared and reared, and when the rope throttled
him, in rage and anger dashed his head against the foot-thick corner-post.
The shock loosened it, so that two rails sprang out (just missing my
scalp) and stunned Christmas.