"It's a state-prison offense to lay poison for
domestic animals," we overheard several of them say; but no one could
find any motive for such a deed.
The owner of the Percheron brought a horse doctor, who made a careful
examination, but he was unable to determine anything more than that the
horses had died of a virulent poison. We buried them that afternoon.
Before night the news had reached Mrs. Kennard. In her grief she not
only reproached herself bitterly for allowing Sylph to be turned out in
so wild a place but held the old Squire and all of us as somehow to
blame for her pet's death. The owner of the Percherons also intimated
that he should hold us liable for his loss, although when a man turns
his stock out in a neighbor's pasture it is generally on the
understanding that it is at his own risk. He took away his other
Percheron colt; and during the day all the other persons who had colts
up there took their animals home. In all respects the occurrence was
most disagreeable--a truly black Monday with us. The old Squire said
little, except that he wanted the right thing done.
For an hour or more after we went to bed that night Addison and I lay
talking about the affair, but we could think of no explanation of the
strange occurrence and at last fell asleep.
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