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“It rains very hard,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass,
looking out of the window next morning. Sure
enough, the rain was sweeping broadcast over the
country, and the four Sparrowgrassii were flattening
a quartette of noses against the window-panes,
believing most faithfully the man would bring the
horse that belonged to his brother, in spite of the
elements. It was hoping against hope: no man
having a horse to sell will trot him out in a rain-storm,
unless he intend to sell him at a bargain—but
childhood is so credulous! The succeeding morning
was bright, however, and down came the horse.
He had been very cleverly groomed, and looked
pleasant under the saddle. The man led him back

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and forth before the door. “There, squire, 's as
good a hos as ever stood on iron.” Mrs. Sparrowgrass
asked me what he meant by that. I replied,
it was a figurative way of expressing, in horse-talk,
that he was as good a horse as ever stood in shoeleather.
“He's a handsome hos, squire,” said
the man. I replied that he did seem to be a goodlooking
animal, but, said I, “he does not quite
come up to the description of a horse I have read.”
“Whose hos was it?” said he. I replied it was the
horse of Adonis. He said he didn't know him,
but, he added, “there is so many hosses stolen,
that the descriptions are stuck up now pretty common.”
To put him at his ease (for he seemed to
think I suspected him of having stolen the horse),
I told him the description I meant had been written
some hundreds of years ago by Shakspeare,
and repeated it—

“Squire,” said he, “that will do for a song, but
it ain't no p'ints of a good hos. Trotters now-a-days

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go in all shapes, big heads and little heads, big
eyes and little eyes, short ears or long ones, thick
tail and no tail; so as they have sound legs, good
l'in, good barrel, and good stifle, and wind, squire,
and speed well, they'll fetch a price. Now, this
animal is what I call a hos, squire; he's got the
p'ints, he's stylish, he's close-ribbed, a free goer,
kind in harness—single or double—a good feeder.”
I asked him if being a good feeder was a desirable
quality. He replied it was; “of course,” said he,
“if your hos is off his feed, he ain't good for nothin'.
But what's the use,” he added, “of me tellin' you
the p'ints of a good hos? You're a hos man,
squire: you know”— “It seems to me,” said I,
“there is something the matter with that left eye.”
“No, sir,” said he, and with that he pulled down
the horse's head, and, rapidly crooking his fore-finger
at the suspected organ, said, “see thar—
don't wink a bit.” “But he should wink,” I
replied. “Not onless his eye are weak,” he said.
To satisfy myself, I asked the man to let me take
the bridle. He did so, and, so soon as I took hold
of it, the horse started off in a remarkable retrograde
movement, dragging me with him into my
best bed of hybrid roses. Finding we were

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trampling down all the best plants, that had cost at auction
from three-and-sixpence to seven shillings
apiece, and that the more I pulled, the more he
backed, I finally let him have his own way, and
jammed him stern-foremost into our largest climbing
rose that had been all summer prickling itself,
in order to look as much like a vegetable porcupine
as possible. This unexpected bit of satire in his
rear changed his retrograde movement to a sidelong
bound, by which he flirted off half the pots
on the balusters, upsetting my gladioluses and tuberoses
in the pod, and leaving great splashes of
mould, geraniums, and red pottery in the gravel
walk. By this time his owner had managed to
give him two pretty severe cuts with the whip,
which made him unmanageable, so I let him go.
We had a pleasant time catching him again, when
he got among the Lima bean-poles; but his owner
led him back with a very self-satisfied expression.
“Playful, ain't he, squire?” I replied that I
thought he was, and asked him if it was usual for
his horse to play such pranks. He said it was not.
“You see, squire, he feels his oats, and hain't been
out of the stable for a month. Use him, and he's as
kind as a kitten.” With that he put his foot in

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the stirrup, and mounted. The animal really
looked very well as he moved around the grass plot,
and, as Mrs. Sparrowgrass seemed to fancy him, I
took a written guarantee that he was sound, and
bought him. What I gave for him is a secret; I
have not even told Mrs. Sparrowgrass.

It is a mooted point whether it is best to buy
your horse before you build your stable, or build
your stable before you buy your horse. A horse
without a stable is like a bishop without a church.
Our neighbor, who is very ingenious, built his stable
to fit his horse. He took the length of his
horse and a little over, as the measure of the depth
of his stable; then he built it. He had a place
beside the stall for his Rockaway carriage. When
he came to put the Rockaway in, he found he had
not allowed for the shafts! The ceiling was too
low to allow them to be erected, so he cut two
square port-holes in the back of his stable and run
his shafts through them, into the chicken-house
behind. Of course, whenever he wanted to take
out his carriage, he had to unroost all his fowls,
who would sit on his shafts, night and day. But
that was- better than building a new stable. For
my part, I determined to avoid mistakes, by getting

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the horse and carriage both first, and then to build the
stable. This plan, being acceptable to Mrs. Sparrowgrass,
was adopted, as judicious and expedient.
In consequence, I found myself with a horse on my
hands with no place to put him. Fortunately, I
was acquainted with a very honest man who kept
a livery stable, where I put him to board by the
month, and in order that he might have plenty of
good oats, I bought some, which I gave to the
ostler for that purpose. The man of whom I bought
the horse did not deceive me, when he represented
him as a great feeder. He ate more oats than all
the rest of the horses put together in that stable.

It is a good thing to have a saddle-horse in the
country. The early morning ride, when dawn and
dew freshen and flush the landscape, is comparable
to no earthly, innocent pleasure. Look at yonder
avenue of road-skirting trees. Those marvellous
trunks, yet moist, are ruddy as obelisks of jasper!
And above—see the leaves blushing at the east!
Hark to the music! interminable chains of melody
linking earth and sky with its delicious magic.
The little, countless wood-birds are singing! and
now rolls up from the mown meadow the fragrance
of cut grass and clover.

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Look at the river with its veil of blue mist! and
the grim, gaunt old Palisades, as amiable in their
orient crowns as old princes, out of the direct line
of succession, over the royal cradle of the heir
apparent!

There is one thing about early riding in the
country; you find out a great many things which,
perhaps, you would not have found out under ordinary
circumstances. The first thing I found out
was, that my horse had the heaves. I had been so
wrapt up in the beauties of the morning, that I had
not observed, what perhaps everybody in that vicinity
had observed, namely, that the new horse had
been waking up all the sleepers on both sides of the
road with an asthmatic whistle, of half-a-mile
power. My attention was called to the fact by the

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village teamster, old Dockweed, who came banging
after me in his empty cart, shouting out my
name as he came. I must say, I have always disliked
old Dockweed's familiarity; he presumes too
much upon my good nature, when he calls me
Sparrygrass before ladies at the dépôt, and by my
Christian name always on the Sabbath, when he is
dressed up. On this occasion, what with the
horse's vocal powers and old Dockweed's, the affair
was pretty well blown over the village before breakfast.
“Sparrygrass,” he said, as he came up,
“that your hos?” I replied, that the horse was my
property. “Got the heaves, ain't he? got'em bad.”
Just then a window was pushed open, and the
white head of the old gentleman, who sits in the
third pew in front of our pew in church, was thrust
out. “What's the matter with your horse?” said
he. “Got the heaves,” replied old Dockweed,
“got'em bad.” Then, I heard symptoms of opening
a blind on the other side of the road, and as I
did not wish to run the gauntlet of such inquiries,
I rode off on a cross road; but not before I heard,
above the sound of pulmonary complaint, the voice
of old Dockweed explaining to the other cottage,
“Sparrygrass—got a hos—got the heaves—got'em

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bad.” I was so much ashamed, that I took a roundabout
road to the stable, and instead of coming
home like a fresh and gallant cavalier, on a hand
gallop, I walked my purchase to the stable, and
dismounted with a chastened spirit.

“Well, dear,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, with a
face beaming all over with smiles, “how did you
like your horse?” I replied that he was not quite
so fine a saddle-horse as I had anticipated, but I
added, brightening up, for good humor is sympathetic,
“he will make a good horse, I think, after
all, for you and the children to jog around with in
a wagon.” “Oh, won't that be pleasant!” said
Mrs. Sparrowgrass.

Farewell, then, rural rides, and rural roads
o'mornings! Farewell, song birds, and jasper
colonnades; farewell misty river, and rocky Palisades;
farewell mown honey-breath, farewell stirrup
and bridle, dawn and dew, we must jog on at
a foot pace. After all, it is better for your horse
to have a pulmonary complaint than have it
yourself.

I had determined not to build a stable, nor to
buy a carriage, until I had thoroughly tested my
horse in harness. For this purpose, I hired a

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Rockaway of the stable-keeper. Then I put Mrs.
Sparrowgrass and the young ones in the double
seats, and took the ribbons for a little drive by the
Nepperhan river road. The Nepperhan is a quiet
stream that for centuries has wound its way through
the ancient dorp of Yonkers. Geologists may
trace the movements of time upon the rocky dial
of the Palisades, and estimate the age of the more
modern Hudson by the foot-prints of sauriæ in the
strata that fringe its banks, but it is impossible to
escape the conviction, as you ride beside the Nepperhan,
that it is a very old stream—that it is
entirely independent of earthquakes—that its birth
was of primeval antiquity—and, no doubt, that it
meandered through Westchester valleys when the
Hudson was only a fresh water lake, land-locked
somewhere above Poughkeepsie. It was a lovely
afternoon. The sun was sloping westward, the
meadows

We had passed Chicken Island, and the famous
house with the stone gable and the one stone chimney,
in which General Washington slept, as he

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made it a point to sleep in every old stone house in
Westchester county, and had gone pretty far on
the road, past the cemetery, when Mrs. Sparrowgrass
said suddenly, “Dear, what is the matter
with your horse?” As I had been telling the children
all the stories about the river on the way, I
had managed to get my head pretty well inside of
the carriage, and, at the time she spoke, was keeping
a look-out in front with my back. The romark
of Mrs. Sparrowgrass induced me to turn about,
and I found the new horse behaving in a most unaccountable
manner. He was going down hill with
his nose almost to the ground, running the wagon
first on this side and then on the other. I thought
of the remark made by the man, and turning again
to Mrs. Sparrowgrass, said, “Playful, isn't he?”
The next moment I heard something breaking
away in front, and then the Rockaway gave a lurch
and stood still. Upon examination I found the
new horse had tumbled down, broken one shaft,
gotten the other through the check-rein so as to
bring his head up with a round-turn, and besides
had managed to put one of the traces in a single
hitch around his off hind leg. So soon as I had
taken all the young ones and Mrs. Sparrowgrass

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out of the Rockaway, I set to work to liberate the
horse, who was chocking very fast with the check-rein.
It is unpleasant to get your fishing-line in a
tangle when you are in a hurry for bites, but I
never saw fishing-line in such a tangle as that harness.
However, I set to work with a penknife, and
cut him out in such a way as to make getting home
by our conveyance impossible. When he got up,
he was the sleepiest looking horse I ever saw.
“Mrs. Sparrowgrass,” said I, “won't you stay here
with the children until I go to the nearest farmhouse?”
Mrs. Sparrowgrass replied that she would.
Then I took the horse with me to get him out of the
way of the children, and went in search of assistance.
The first thing the new horse did when he
got about a quarter of a mile from the scene of
the accident, was to tumble down a bank. Fortunately
the bank was not over four feet high, but as
I went with him, my trowsers were rent in a grievous
place. While I was getting the new horse
on his feet again, I saw a colored person approaching,
who came to my assistance. The first thing
he did was to pull out a large jack-knife, and the
next thing he did was to open the new horse's
mouth and run the blade two or three times inside

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of the new horse's gums. Then the new horse commenced
bleeding. “Dah, sah,” said the man,
shutting up his jack-knife, “ef't hadn't been for
dat yer, your hos would a' bin a goner.” “What
was the matter with him?” said I. “Oh, he's ony
jis got de blind-staggers, das all. Say,” said
he, before I was half indignant enough at the man
who had sold me such an animal, “say, ain't your
name Sparrowgrass?” I replied that my name
was Sparrowgrass. “Oh,” said he, “I knows you,
I brung some fowls once down to you place. I
heerd about you, and you hos. Dats de hos dats
got de heaves so bad, heh! heh! You better sell
dat hos.” I determined to take his advice, and
employed him to lead my purchase to the nearest
place where he would be cared for. Then I went
back to the Rockaway, but met Mrs. Sparrowgrass
and the children on the road coming to meet me.
She had left a man in charge of the Rockaway.
When we got to the Rockaway we found the man
missing, also the whip and one cushion. We got
another person to take charge of the Rockaway,
and had a pleasant walk home by moonlight. I
think a moonlight night delicious, upon the Hud-

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Does any person want a horse at a low price?
A good, stylish-looking animal, close-ribbed, good
loin, and good stifle, sound legs, with only the
heaves and blind-staggers, and a slight defect in
one of his eyes? If at any time he slips his bridle
and gets away, you can always approach him by
getting on his left side. I will also engage to give
a written guarantee that he is sound and kind,
signed by the brother of his former owner.

p529-141

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