When I talk about the mule, it always gets the quizzical look.
The look that says, "Uh, wha––?"
We found ours used (from nice little old man who only drove it on weekends on red clay dirt in Georgia) and hauled it to the farm, where we instantly put it to work.
The mule hauls buckets of water from the pond, transports loads of junky hay to the compost heap, and conveys small boulders from their frost heave landing spots to the new rock projects. And at a pretty good clip, too!
The mule easily scrambles up over rocks and through muddy water, and it's made the long path from the road to the beaver-pond an easy –– if bumpy –– ride for visitors.
It sips on the gas, doesn't need its stall mucked out, and it works well for blazing new trails. No kicking so far. Yay mule.
So many things in this world are alarming. And childhood is difficult.
Should toys be this frightening, even for plucky British youngsters?
And for a historical perspective on these baubles, here's the link to an even longer YouTube video featuring hypnotic and intriguing (okay, disturbing) antique automata:
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