If at any time she was wanted when in the grass paddock, it required the lot of us from Dad down to yard her, as well as the dogs, and every other dog in the neighbourhood.

Not that she had any brumby element in her--she would have been easier to yard if she had--but she would drive steadily enough, alone or with other horses, until she saw the yard, when she would turn and deliberately walk away.

If we walked to head her she beat us by half a length; if we ran she ran, and stopped when we stopped.

That was the aggravating part of her! When it was only to go to the store or the post-office that we wanted her, we could have walked there and back a dozen times before we could run her down; but, somehow, we generally preferred to work hard catching her rather than walk.
When we had spent half the day hunting for the curry-comb, which we did n't find, Dad began to rub Bess down with a corn-cob--a shelled one--and trim her up a bit.

He pulled her tail and cut the hair off her heels with a knife; then he gave her some corn to eat, and told Joe he was to have a bundle of thistles cut for her every night.