er. The need for surgeons is urgent
and I've got to help lick the South. I thought, barring the five
from you, I could raise enough to buy into practice with Dr. Edwards
before I leave, so that if I live, I will have that to return to. It
will cost a hundred dollars. But I can't do it. So I guess you'll
have to sell Pilgrim. I hate to ask it of you but after all he's
only an expense to you and I'll buy you another, after the war. Sell
him to the government for an army horse. Mr. Inchpin will attend to
it for you.

"Lovingly,
"JASON."

Jason's mother read the letter with tears running down her cheeks. It
was November. Drearily the Kentucky hills rolled back from the river and
drearily the Ohio valleys stretched inland. Pilgrim plodded patiently
toward the stable and his mistress, huddled in the saddle, gave him no
heed until Pilgrim stamped impatiently at the stable door. Then she
dismounted and the great horse stamped into his stall.

"O Pilgrim," she sobbed, "Jason is going to war. Jason is going to war.
I can't lose him too!"

The horse turned his fine head and nickered softly as he rubbed his soft
nose on her shoulder.

"And I've got to let you go, old friend," she added. "I know that I
don't need you, Pilgrim. It's just that you are like a living bit of
father--and if Jason would only seem to understand that, it wouldn't be
so hard to let you go. I wonder if all young folks are like Jason?"

Old Pilgrim leaned his head over his stall and in the November gloaming
he looked long at his mistress with his wise and gentle eyes. It was as
if he would tell her that he had learned that youth is always a little
hard; that only long years in harness with always the back-breaking load
to pull, not for oneself, but for others, can make the really grateful
heart. One of the sweet, deep compensations of the years, the gray horse
seemed to say, is that gratitude grows in the soul.

So Jason and Old Pilgrim both went to war. They did not see each other,
but each one, in his own way, made a brilliant record. Pilgrim learned
the sights and sounds and smells of war. The fearful pools of blood
ceased to send him plunging and rearing in harness. The screams of utter
fear or of mortal agony no longer set him to neighing or sweating in
sympathy. Pilgrim, superb in strength and supe