Two paths diverged at an old ranch house, a path to the pasture, a path to the lawn. One day a horse took a turn to the left, instead of the right, and trod over the grass down to a corner where fences met, and hung his head over the cleft. He stood there, head over the rails, just stood there close—and stood—and would be standing there yet, if his owner had not turned him about and brought him out.
The rancher runs cattle and also some sheep. One day a sheep made the same mistake (they don’t all follow their leader) and took that turn down to the fence. He stood there, too, gave his head a shake, then turned all around, and came on back, with no bleating complaint. That sheep didn’t know “couldn’t” and didn’t know “can’t.” The horse, which we are inclined to vaunt, was filled with “ain’t” and crammed with “won’t.” (A horse entangled in barbed wire may thrash and eventually expire, his heart gone out when his brain is frayed). No matter: horses are celebrated and sheep are slighted.
Nonetheless, what happened did occur. The rancher himself witnessed the two episodes, recounting them both, close to home. Still, he esteems his horse.
Moral: When did any evidence ever modify preference?
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