he second step, and
wisps of straw standing out all over her, like quills upon the fretful
porcupine.

I should fail if I tried to tell you how dear the pony was to me. Even
hard, unloving men become attached to the horses they take care of; so
I, who was neither unloving nor hard, grew to love every glossy hair of
the pretty little creature that depended on me for her soft straw bed
and her daily modicum of oats. In my prayer at night I never forgot to
mention Gypsy with the rest of the family--generally setting forth her
claims first.

Whatever relates to Gypsy belongs properly to this narrative; therefore
I offer no apology for rescuing from oblivion, and boldly printing here
a short composition which I wrote in the early part of my first quarter
at the Temple Grammar School. It is my maiden effort in a difficult art,
and is, perhaps, lacking in those graces of thought and style which are
reached only after the severest practice.

Every Wednesday morning, on entering school, each pupil was expected
to lay his exercise on Mr. Grimshaw's desk; the subject was usually
selected by Mr. Grimshaw himself, the Monday previous. With a humor
characteristic of him, our teacher had instituted two prizes, one for
the best and the other for the worst composition of the month. The first
prize consisted of a penknife, or a pencil-case, or some such article
dear to the heart of youth; the second prize entitled the winner to wear
for an hour or two a sort of conical paper cap, on the front of which
was written, in tall letters, this modest admission: I AM A DUNCE! The
competitor who took prize No. 2. wasn't generally an object of envy.

My pulse beat high with pride and expectation that Wednesday morning, as
I laid my essay, neatly folded, on the master's table. I firmly decline
to say which prize I won; but here's the composition to speak for
itself.

It is no small-author vanity that induces me to publish this stray
leaf of natural history. I lay it before our young folks, not for
their admiration, but for their criticism. Let each reader take
his lead-pencil and remorselessly correct the orthography, the
capitalization, and the punctuation of the essay. I shall not feel hurt
at seeing my treatise cut all to pieces; though I think highly of the
production, not on account of its literary excellence, which I candidly
admit is not overpowering, but because it was written years and years
ago about Gypsy, by a little fellow who, wh