Jean M. Thompson, Wild Kindred
“ Gnats bit right through his tough hide; he swung his great head incessantly and angrily, lashing them with his tail; still they clung, biting and stinging his flesh until blood flowed. The plains stretched on ahead with no companionship in sight. Poor, lonely Mogul! For days he had not tasted water. If he could but find a water hole, he would wallow and rid himself of the stinging pests. That night he reached a small, brackish pool of water and, dropping into a moist place, Mogul rolled about until he had made a fine hole about as long and wide as himself. ”
