noon
These memories were not exactly clear , but , vague as they were , they stuck . They had to do with fields of new grass , with the elastic feel of dew-moistened turf under one 's hoofs , with the enticing smell of sweet clover in one 's nostrils , the sound of gently moving leaves in one 's ears , and the sense that before , as well as behind , were long hours of delicious leisure . It was only in the afternoons that these memories troubled Chieftain . In the morning one feels fresh and strong and contented , and , when one has time for any thought at all , there are comforting reflections that in the nose-bags , swung under the truck-seat , are eight quarts of good oats , and that noon must come some time or other . But along about three o'clock of a July day , with stabling time too far away to be thought of , when there was nothing to do but to stand patiently in the glare of the sun-baked freight-yard , while Tim and his helper loaded on case after case and barrel after barrel , then it was that Chieftain could not help thinking about the fields of new grass , and other things connected with his colt days . Sometimes , when he was plodding doggedly over the hard pavements , with every foot-fall jarring tired muscles , he would think how nice it would be , just for a week or so , to tread again that yielding turf he had known such a long , long time ago . Then , perhaps , he would slacken just a bit on the traces , and Tim would give that queer , shrill chirrup of his , adding , sympathetically : `` Come , me bye , come ahn ! ''