Once, when the snow of the year was beginning to fall,
We stopped by a mountain pasture to say "Whose colt?"
A little Morgan had one forefoot on the wall,
The other curled at his breast.
He dipped his head and snorted to us.
And then he had to blot.
We heard the miniature thunder where he fled
And we saw him or thought we saw him dim and gray,
Like a shadow against the curtain of falling flakes.
"I think the little fellow's afraid of the snow.
He isn't winter-broken.
It isn't play with the little fellow at all.
He's running away.
I doubt if even his mother could tell him,
'Sakes, it's only weather.'
He'd think she didn't know.
Where is his mother?
He can't be out alone."
And now he comes again with a clatter of stone
And mounts the wall again with a clatter of stone
And all his tail that isn't hair up straight.
He shudders his coat as if to throw off flies.
"Whoever it is that leaves him out so late,
When other creatures have gone to stall and bin,
Ought to be told to come and take him in."
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