I Will Write Another Book

It Was Sunday Morning (one A.m.), A Not Unusual Time For Some Farmers, After A Late Saturday Night, To Have A Look Round Their Stock And Decide To Send For The Vet.

At Times It Seemed Unfair That I Should Be Paid For My Work; For Driving Out In The Early Morning With The Fields Glittering Under The First Pale Sunshine And The Wisps Of Mist Still Hanging On The High Tops.

There Was No Last Animal I Treated. When Young Farm Lads Started To Help Me Over The Gate Into A Field Or A Pigpen, To Make Sure The Old Fellow Wouldn't Fall, I Started To Consider Retiring.

For Years I Used To Bore My Wife Over Lunch With Stories About Funny Incidents.

They Can't Find My House Now Because I Keep It Very Quiet Where I Live.