THE DICKSONS

way I got on the wrong road, and eventually found myself in the middle of Saxonville which was very populated and unlike any-where I had ever ridden to before. A boy came up to me and asked permission to pat the pony and then he asked if he might ride it. I kindly dismounted and let him gallop up and down the street a few times. He had a friend who wanted to do the same and still another friend — in all, I think about six people took a turn    before I finally got into the saddle again and started towards   home. It was early afternoon when I passed by grandmother's house in Wayland. Aunt Celin caught sight of me and came run- ning out to ask me where I had been. I told her that I had started for Framingham but got lost. It turned out that my father had     been telephoning frantically around to see if anyone had seen      me; my mother, on the other hand, took it all very calmly — as  long as I was on a horse nothing serious could happen to me.    Give the horse its head and it will bring you home, I had often   been told, and that is exactly what happened. I said nothing     about how I had let several children ride the pony; had I done      so there would have been firm disapproval.
   When my mother became interested in raising Morgan horses, she set up an operation at our farm in Vermont — the logical   place to do it, she said, because a breed of horse develops best   on its native soil. She became an enthusiastic member of the Morgan Horse Association, and attended every meeting she could. At one of them she read a paper describing her experiences in propagating the breed. When she had finished the chairman  thought it might be interesting if Mr. Dickson told a little about      his experiences in horse raising. Speaking with his accustomed brevity, he first thanked the chairman then added, "Ladies and

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