and whacks, mingled with the patter of hoofs on
the street. It was so dramatic that even the women came to their doors
to witness the pageant. We tried not to laugh, and so did the delicately
mannered spectators, but I suspect that a good deal of laughing was done
on the sly, in spite of the canons of etiquette.

At length the obliging lads became a little too accommodating. They used
their persuasives upon the donkeys so vigorously that they--the
donkeys--started off on a lope, a sort of awkward, lop-sided gallop.
Now, if there is anything that is beyond the ability of Master Jack,
especially if he is old, it is to canter and at the same time preserve
his equilibrium. It is evident that he is not built to make a
rocking-chair of his back bone. So a little comedy was enacted, all
involuntary on the part of the _dramatis personae_. Suddenly
Turpentine--that was the name of the little gray burro ridden by my boy
companion--took a header, sending his youthful rider sprawling to the
ground, where he did not remain a moment longer than good manners
demanded. Fortunately he succeeded in disengaging his feet from the
stirrups and directing his movements in such a way that the animal did
not fall upon him. But poor Turpentine, what of him? He tumbled clean
over his head upon his back, and I want to confess in all candor that
one of the most instructive and interesting "animal pictures" I have
ever seen, including those done by Landseer, Rosa Bonheur, and Ernest
Thompson Seton, was that little iron-gray, long-eared donkey lying on
his back on the street and clawing the air with his hoofs. And he clawed
fast, too--fairly sawed the air. For once in his life Turpentine, the
snail paced, was in a hurry; for once he moved with more celerity than
grace. It threw us into spasms of laughter to see him exert himself so
vigorously to reverse his position--to get his feet down and his back
up. A cat could not have done it with more celerity. You never would
have believed him capable of putting so much vim and vigor into his
easy-going personality. After chopping the air with his hoofs for a
second or two, he succeeded in righting himself, and was on his feet in
less time than it takes to tell it. There he stood, as meek as Mary's
lamb, trying to look as if he had never turned an undignified somersault
in all his tranquil life.

We started on our journey again, and presently, to our intense relief,
reached the border of the town, thanked t