Dreams of a Dancing Horse Read Online Free Page A

Scheme
    A few weeks have passed since my first hoedown. The past nights dancing with Lena have been the best times of my life. We have found music everywhere. Some nights we gallop to the town diner and dance out back in the alley until, as Lena says, “they roll up the sidewalks.”
    We’ve found barn dances and hoedowns in neighboring counties. We even ventured, without invitation, to a garden wedding, where a band played.
    And when there was no music to be found, Lena and I made our own music in the old barn. I love it best when she climbs aboard my broad back and does her pirouettes and ballet moves as she hums her beautiful music.
    On Sundays we attend four church services. We stand outside and listen to the music, swaying and doing our own dance to the lovely hymns inside. As soon as one service ends, we gallop off to the next.
    It’s the last church we love best. The humans sing and shout the music from their hearts and souls. They even dance in the aisles of that church. The first time we were there, Lena and I walked right in, and not a soul objected. We danced along with them.
    At the end of the service, the preacher himself shook our hand and hoof and invited us back. The following Sunday, Lena and I were asked to perform a special number. “Looks to me like you two have done this dancing thing a time or two,” said the preacher. “Won’t you share your gifts with us?”
    â€œYou’re dern tootin’,” Lena answered.
    I felt then that she was indeed gaining the confidence she needs to become Crystalina the Ballerina.
    The following Sunday, Lena gave my dingy coat “a lick and a promise,” and we did perform at that church. We danced to a tune called “Amazing Grace.” I was so nervous I stepped on poor Lena’s foot. That made me feel so bad, I stopped dancing altogether.
    But Lena just laughed and said, “Fred, who’s plucking this chicken, you or me? I reckon I aim to do the leading from now on, if that’s all right by you.”
    That comment brought down the house. The crowd loved Lena.
    Now every Sunday they ask for a special number.
    I confess that days at Quagmire Farms are as hard to take as ever, with Round Rollo “leading” behind the plow. But Lena packs so much happiness into every night that I hardly mind the days.

    One morning as Rollo struggles with the harness, Herbert Quagmire himself appears in the field. I have never seen his face this close up and in direct sunlight. It is a leathery face, not unlike the face of a rooster, with a nose that could slice cucumbers and tiny eyes that look as if they were shot into place by a small sidearm.
    If I am not mistaken, his lips are attempting a smile. “Rollo, my boy,” Herbert Quagmire says, “wait till you see what your daddy done did. We are going to be filthy rich!”
    Rollo drops the harness onto my hoof and stands up. “We are?”
    â€œI’ve got me a surefire moneymaking scheme that can’t miss!” Herbert announces. “Just you wait! This morning, you’re gonna see for yourself.”
    â€œAnd we’ll be rich?” Rollo asks, his face reflecting his father’s expression.
    â€œRicher than rich!” affirms his father.
    An hour later I hear a chug chug, rattle rattle coming our way.
    When I turn toward the racket, I see something green crossing the field and coming toward us. Then I realize it’s Herbert Quagmire riding a tractor.
    He drives up waving like he’s in the Easter Parade. Rollo runs to him and pets the green monstrosity as if it’s a Thoroughbred or Lipizzan. The two of them ooh and ahh over the machine and, once again, discuss how filthy rich they intend to be.
    Lena comes out to the field, looking lovely, though barefoot and in oversized overalls. “Hey, Fred!” she says, making sure to scratch my ears before seeing what the fuss is all about. “What you got here, Uncle