It took many months before Maggie allowed herself to enjoy her new life. She eventually came to have her favorite spot under the apple tree， her own corner of the pasture where the new grass grew tallest， and her own place in the warm， hay-scented shelter of the barn. Maggie learned to be loved to lift her head for a special scratch under her pendulous lower lip， to lean gently against my side so that I could slip an arm around her neck， and to nuzzle in my coat pocket for the special treat she knew I always carried.
She looked up at the sound of my voice， and in her own cumbersome way， galloped down the side of the hill to meet me. She joyfully brayed a welcome through the barn when I appeared in the morning， and snuffled a wet goodnight into my ear as I closed the door at night.
Maggie knew she was loved—not for how she looked or for what she could do， but just for being Maggie. She died in the spring six years after she came with us. She died in her comer of the pasture， with a wisp of new green grass in her mouth. She died quietly， without fuss， as she had lived her life. But in a departure from how she had lived most of her life， Maggie died loved. For the old， the unloved， and even the unlovable， Maggie is my reminder that love is a one-way flow until the heart learns to trust.
我從來都不知道瑪吉的年齡和我見到它之前它的生活狀況。但在它身上有長期被虐待的痕跡，而且每當有人突然驚動它，它都會很害怕。我本沒有要讓瑪吉和我們一起生活的想法，我帶著孩子們去瓦林農場隻是看看驢，而沒想買它。但是我突然看到一道目光，這改變了我的想法，我想買一頭驢。
我選擇了一頭生龍活虎的小驢，它柔軟的嘴伸進我的口袋裏想找吃的。它個頭小，但是身材還不錯，它叫萊克西，差不多有我肩膀那麽高。“它將來得有個伴，”驢販子瓦爾說道，“驢討厭獨處。”當時我臉上的表情肯定很沮喪。我買一頭驢都有經濟壓力，又怎麽能買得起兩頭呢？“我買不起兩頭驢，”我有點兒哽咽地說。默默地在心裏和萊克西說再見。