It was not hard to tip the horse over, with both of them pushing, and it shoved easily over the dewy Saint Augustine grass of Mrs. Horne’s lawn and down the slope to the river. The head, tipped at that angle of arrogance, cut some gouges, but nothing that could not be sodded over. Once in the water, it wanted to float head down, with its pointy feet sticking up, and Lucy had to wade in waist deep and hold it down against the current while it filled with water from a hole in its belly. It rolled over on its side and floated high for a minute like a dead, bloated thing. With a glug-glug-glug sound, it sank lower and lower, and at last Lucy guided it out until she couldn’t touch bottom anymore and gave it a shove. It caught on a snag, twirled once, and sank.

The first annual Florinna parade went on as scheduled, but it was a pitiful thing, with no enthusiasm. Nobody could think of anything but the missing statue. They all left the parade and went down to the gates of the farm and stood around, staring at all that was left of the bronze horse, its three feet on the stone pedestal, cruelly cut off at the fetlocks with a hacksaw. All they could talk about was who and why: vandals, college kids from Auburn, just for a lark, no understanding of values, what a shame, the first crime in our town. Nobody was thinking about the joys of the season, so Mrs. Horne turned out the lights on the display of Christmas books in the bookstore window and closed early. Everybody seemed to find Smash Dykes’s feedstore a comforting place to be, and they congregated there and stayed until long after dark, drinking coffee and talking about the stolen statue. Smash Dykes didn’t say much, just “Ain’t it a shame” a few times. He sat in a straight chair by the woodstove, whittling a little horse out of basswood with his penknife, while Mrs. Horne’s white cat wove in and out, rubbing up against his legs.

The Progress of Deglutition

IT WAS THANKSGIVING evening, that sweetly peaceful time after the dishes are washed and put away, and the turkey soup is simmering on the back of the stove, when Sally’s husband, Dave, told her that their marriage felt like a snake around his neck, and he wanted a divorce.

It took Sally completely by surprise. She just sat there for a long time, staring at the first camellia in a glass dish on the dining room table, a White Emperor. Finally she said in a tiny, feeble voice, “What kind of snake?”