“That was mean!” Robert’s voice quivered with indignation.

“One day last March,” went on Mr. Spencer, “I saw the poor fellow standing in the cold wind and rain, with no blanket on.  His head was down and he was shivering with cold.  I could hardly believe that it was the same horse I had known a few years ago.  To make a long story short, I bought him for a small sum and took him to a stable near by.  There I saw him well rubbed down and fed with warm bran-mash.  After a few days I brought him out here.  He is very happy and comfortable, but it will take him all summer to get well.  He can do only light work for the rest of his life.”

“Does he need any food but hay and grass?” Robert asked, as he held out a handful of sweet clover to Whitey.

“If he were working, he should have plenty of oats,” said the farmer; “and all horses need a bran-mash once a week, at least.”

“Will his tail ever grow again?” asked Robert.

“No,” said Mr. Spencer,” but I rub him with an ointment which the flies do not like.  I use it for all my horses and cows.”

“I wish I could buy all the worn-out horses in the world and send them here,” said Robert.

Mr. Spencer laughed.  “I should need a big pasture,” he said.  “See the sheep in the brook, Robert!  They enjoy running water as much as the cows and horses do.”

“Do sheep need much care?” asked Robert, who found farm life very interesting.

“They need to be protected from stray dogs and to have a shelter from the cold and storms.  Otherwise they give very little trouble.  They should always keep their warm wool coats until the cold spring winds are over.  Some farmers are very thoughtless about this, and their sheep and lambs suffer and die from cold.  It would make your heart ache to see, as I have often seen, the little dead lambs in the bleak pastures.”

“I’ll remember that, when I have my farm,” said Robert, with ready sympathy.  “I’ll have my sheep keep their coats on, just as I wear my reefer, until it is warm.”

THE AIR-GUN

On the way home from the sheep-pasture, Mr. Spencer saw a boy by the side of the road with an air-gun in his hands.

“There is Frank Weston shooting birds,” he said, stopping his horse.  “What are you shooting, Frank?”

“English sparrows, Mr. Spencer,” said the boy, coming forward.  “My father said I might shoot all I could find.  There’s one, now.”

“You are mistaken,” said Mr. Spencer quietly.  “That is a song sparrow and a native of our fields.”

“Oh, yes, so it is!” said the boy carelessly.  “But there are plenty of English sparrows.  I shot five yesterday.  They do ever so much harm, Mr. Spencer.”

“They certainly do some good, also,” said the farmer.  “They eat cankerworms and other harmful insects.  They are said to devour that troublesome pest, the tree caterpillar, which no other bird will touch.”