My brother, with head down and sprung in the knees, pulls the street car.

My sister makes her living on the tow path, hearing the canal boys swear.

My aunt died of the epizooetic.

My uncle--blind, and afflicted with the bots, the ringbone and the spring-halt--wanders about the commons, trying to persuade somebody to shoot him.

And here I stand, old and sick, to cry out against the wrongs of horses--the saddles that gall, the spurs that prick, the snaffles that pinch, the loads that kill.
At this a vicious-looking nag, with mane half pulled out, and a "watch-eye," and feet "interfering," and a tail from which had been subtracted enough hair to make six "waterfalls," squealed out the suggestion that it was time for a rebellion, and she moved that we take the field, and that all those who could kick should kick, and that all those who could bite should bite, and that all those who could bolt should bolt, and that all those who could run away should run away, and that thus we fill the land with broken wagons and smashed heads, and teach our oppressors that the day of retribution has come, and that our down-trodden race will no more be trifled with.
When this resolution was put to vote, not one said "Aye," but all cried "Nay, nay," and for the space of half an hour kept on neighing.