He might spot the creature one cool and misty afternoon, walking from the big house to the yard, squelching across the damp grass littered with fallen leaves, a thing shaped like a horse, the color of a cloud at sundown. But horses aren't that color, are they? And they don't walk along clad in a slick yellow sheet, with a little red umbrella
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So when he spots the critter, while he was corralling the goats back, he blinks, and he blinks hard.
"It ain't what it is, nay," he says aloud. "Can't be."
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".... yay," he replies, and crouches to look at it better.
"... you ain't real, nay, you gotsa be mindtrickery."
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