Search Results for: Horses
less than a year before his death, still starting work at seven-thirty on six mornings in every week, feeding the chickens, collecting eggs, hosing down the daimler. for all my father's devotion to this piece of earth he husbanded, until the day of his death he was always merely the hired man. the horses
somehow belonged to him. perhaps it was better that it didn't, if owning it produced a man like his boss: tense, irascible, neurotic about his property, a fascist in his politics. perhaps it was because he did not own them that my father was able to love the birch-woods and the tall, sleek foxhunting horses...
http://www.writewords.org.uk/articles/christmas2003.asp