From the catalogue of the more theatrical doings of Christmas one more
may be cited. Within a week of his yarding he had taught us so much,
inspired us with such confidence in his resourcefulness and ability, that
we resolved to give him a treat in the plantation dragging round a
miniature disc-harrow, a particular brand of agricultural implement
known as the "pony dot." Being so, in fact and appearance, it was quite
a misfit for Christmas--a mere toy with which a gay young horse might
condescend to beguile a few loose hours. It was a charming morning.
Birds were vulgarly sportful. Honey-eaters whistled among the trees,
scrub-fowl chuckled in the jungle. Christmas, too, was bent on amusing
himself, and he was so lusty and jocund, and the toy jangled and
clattered so cheerfully that neither Tom nor myself could bestow
much attention to the birds. What was gentle exercise to Christmas
was quite sensational to us. He did not mind what stumps and logs
were in the way. We did. Our agility was distinctly forced. But it
was a charming morning, and Christmas was out for pleasure. In an
hour or so the monotony of the picnic began to pall on Christmas,
and as Tom began to chirp at him familiarly, if not quite authoritatively,
I sat down in the shade to reflect that while Christmas had been
violently exercising me, some of the charm of the day had filtered
through my aching fingers. How pleasant it was to think that the
discordant labour of the tropical agriculturist was past! This charming
morning had settled it all. Tom and Christmas and the "pony dot" would
keep the whole plantation as innocent of weeds as the Garden of Eden.
Thus to muse in the dim arcade of the jungle absorbing the sounds of the
birds, and of the murmuring sea, while a horse did all the work, in
holiday humour, was the very bliss of the tropical farmer.

In the midst of a soothing, inarticulate soliloquy the "pony dot"