It was the morning after the Fair and a Fremont Township farmer had harnessed his horses and left them standing in the barn yard, hitched to the wagon.
The day before he had taken them on the Fair ground and left them standing close to the track during the races. So, after a little reflection, they doubtless decided to have a little Fair of their own.
A rattle, a bang, and lo! The team and wagon were flying around that lot at a pace equal to Buckskin’s. About the seventh round, the wagon overturned, the bed was left and the horses plunged on, faster than ever. Women and children stood around and held up boards, poles, hats, and such, to stop them. On they went, hurry skurry, the hind wheels dragging on the hubs, till at last they fell off.
About the tenth round, the gallant steeds ran into a fence, and stood trembling, with no more damage to themselves than cut feet. But when Mr. Daniels surveyed the wreck strewn over that feed lot, didn’t he say something emphatic?