Rangatira has developed a high-pitched tenor note in blowing his hose – a true chieftain, magnificent even in his emunctions, he blows his nose like a bugle.
The mad mare who replaced my deceased hero, will have none of me; her back is one perpetual arch, her eye a maniacal glare, her slender but badly scarred legs move in fitful prancing. I sweat, I swear, making ineffectual dabs with my brush, I seize her legs and hold them up by main force, she lurches at a dangerous angle and threatens to fall on top of her tormentor; or actually lifts the other leg and drops on her knees. The chieftain regards me coldly in stern aloofness, unresponsive to my encouraging pats, his hard little underlip set firm. I groom at his sturdy hocks, which he permits for a while, motionless, indifferent; smack! with lightening rapidity he has lifted his foot and stamped in the vicinity of my boot. But I like him, though my passion is, and always will be, unrequited.
Blue propaganda balloons have been released at intervals and gone sailing over our heads to drop their mental bombs on Fritz’s lines.
Walk March 