Mist of the Morning.

I see a hill-meadow on a misty morning and a bunch of horses, shadowy in the haze, standing head to tail and rolling restive eyes at the ominous bridles that swing in our hands. I see Hell's Bells, the rebel of the bunch, lift his tail and twitch a wary hock. I see the white of his walling eye as he pivots on his heels and, with a derisive scream, flings himself over the broken turf. I see him lead the bunch—tossing heads and streaming manes—into the mist of morning; brave, swift shadows, with the grace that makes you hold your breath. I see them next—bitted and saddled—docile yet proud. I see a cavalcade streaming up hill—leather creaking, bits rattling, hoofs pounding like the beating of muffled drums. Music? Symphony of Saddle, hymn of hoofs, march of freedom. Yes—or so it seems in retrospect.