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My Tropic Isle by E. J. (Edmund James) Banfield
page 79 of 265 (29%)

Several other episodes embellish the early career of Christmas as a
working horse, all of them, I conscientiously confess, arising from gross
misunderstanding. He knew in what manner a good-natured, competent, lusty
horse should be handled and trained. We didn't, and necessarily had to
learn. He trained himself while we took hearty lessons in holding him.
Once he decided to gallop with a sled. It was a mere whim--a gay little
prank--but Tom couldn't stop him. He ran too, holding on to the reins at
arm's length, contrary to my counsel, urged from discreet distance.
Christmas ran faster, and by and by Tom sat down on his chin, and
Christmas went on without him. He didn't quite remember the width
of the sled. Consequently when with a careless flourish he whisked
between two bloodwoods the sled struck one with a shock that for a
moment "dithered" the Island. It was just like that sucking earthquake
which went off bang under Kingsley's bed when he was in Italy. The
bruise is on the tree now, and the sled wasn't worth taking home for
firewood. Christmas went on but just as the passion of the moment calmed
down, the trailing reins--fit to hold a whale, be it repeated--caught
in a tough sapling, and it was Christmas that went down. It was only a
trip, but as he got up and faced about looking for the remains of the
sled, the harness, tugged by the reins, crowded on his neck--backband,
collar, hames, chains and all. Then began a merry-go-round, for
Christmas, properly bedevilled, lost his presence of mind, and in a fancy
costume of the Elizabethan age--a ruff of harness--waltzed most
fantastically.

Again a few soothing words and two bananas calmed his affrighted and
angry soul. Great is the virtue of the banana! A goodly hour was spent
in untying the knots, and Tom made the one joke of his life. "My word,
that fella Christmas he no good for boat. He make'm knot--carn let go
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