Rocky, a dark bay with an insignificant little head, a tiny, battle-scarred chest, concave flanks and protruding ribs, was caught on Easter Sunday and has been confined ever since on the outskirts of Reno in a small pen with heavy timbered fences eight feet high. At the approach of humans. Rocky races down to the other end of the pen, perks his ears, then lays them back and gallops in mad circles. Only the pen is too small, the turning angle too sharp, and Rocky keeps falling on his side. "Ain't he sorry?" laughs...
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