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trotted
currycomb
pitchfork
I hardly heard, I could scarcely wait. I was so happy, so thrilled. I rode off up the street. Such a beautiful pony. And mine! After a while I turned and trotted back to the stable. There was the family, father, mother, sisters, all working for me, all happy. They had been putting in place the tools of my new business: currycomb, brush, pitchfork -- everything, and there was hay in the loft. But that Christmas, which my father had planned so carefully, was it the best or the worst I ever knew? He often asked me that; I never could answer as a boy. I think now that it was both. It covered the whole distance from broken-hearted misery to bursting happiness -- too fast, A grown-up could hardly have stood it.