My day at home; grazing graminivores. A harrowing sight in front of our doorway is a horse dying of tetanus, or lockjaw. He makes desperate attempts to eat, but cannot unclasp his teeth, through which a frothy slime oozes. Every now and then he falls down with weakness, then struggles again to his feet. Our fire is burning merrily and boiling two tins of steam pudding which we have jointly purchased for supper.
9. p.m. A bit of good news was the crack of the revolver that put the lock-jawed horse into the happy hunting ground where he is now, unharnessed, a rampant stallion bounding over the Elysian Plain, rolling topsy turvy on the Celestial Sand Hills, and splashing through translucent streams.