One huge
oak in the very center of an intricate maze of vines was drawn far over
and its boughs were twisted into strange, distorted shapes. It was obvious
to both that the vines, singly so feeble, collectively so powerful, had
done it, and they stood a moment or two wondering at this proof of the
power of united and unceasing effort.
They went a mile or so further on, and Henry led the way toward the left
and from the creek. An instinct or the lay of the land, perhaps, warned
him that the open country was in that direction. The trees, had begun to
thin already, and in another mile they came out upon a beautiful little
rolling prairie. It was quite clear of trees; grass, mingled with wild
flowers, grew high upon it, and at the far edge they saw the figures of
animals grazing.
"Deer!" exclaimed Paul. "There they are, Henry! Just waiting for us!"
Henry took a long and keen look, then shook his head.
"No, not deer, Paul," he said. "Now guess what they are."
"They can't be buffaloes," replied Paul. "I think, Henry, I'm right;
they're deer."
"No," said Henry, "they're horses."
"Horses! Why there are no plantations hereabouts!"
"Not tame horses. Wild horses. Descendants of the horses that the
Spaniards brought to Mexico two or three hundreds ago.
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