e buggy
this afternoon, will you come?"

"Where are you going?" asked Miss Laura.

"Just for a short drive back of the river, to collect some money for
father. I'll be home long before tea time."

"Yes, I should like to go," said Miss Laura, "I will go to the house and
get my other hat."

"Come on, Fleetfoot," said Mr. Harry. And he led the way from the
pasture, the colt following behind with me. I waited about the veranda,
and in a short time Mr. Harry drove up to the front door. The buggy was
black and shining, and Fleetfoot had on a silver-mounted harness that
made him look very fine. He stood gently switching his long tail to keep
the flies away, and with his head turned to see who was going to get
into the buggy. I stood by him, and as soon as he saw that Miss Laura
and Mr. Harry had seated themselves, he acted as if he wanted to be off.
Mr. Harry spoke to him and away he went, I racing down the lane by his
side, so happy to think he was my friend. He liked having me beside him,
and every few seconds put down his head toward me. Animals can tell each
other things without saying a word. When Fleetfoot gave his head a
little toss in a certain way, I knew that he wanted to have a race. He
had a beautiful even gait, and went very swiftly. Mr. Harry kept
speaking to him to check him.

"You don't like him to go too fast, do you?" said Miss Laura.

"No," he returned. "I think we could make a racer of him if we liked,
but father and I don't go in for fast horses. There is too much said
about fast trotters and race horses. On some of the farms around here,
the people have gone mad on breeding fast horses. An old farmer out in
the country had a common cart-horse that he suddenly found out had great
powers of speed and endurance. He sold him to a speculator for a big
price, and it has set everybody wild. If the people who give all their
time to it can't raise fast horses, I don't see how the farmers can. A
fast horse on a farm is ruination to the boys, for it starts them racing
and betting. Father says he is going to offer a prize for the fastest
walker that can be bred in New Hampshire. That Dutchman of ours, heavy
as he is, is a fair walker, and Cleve and Pacer can each walk four and a
half miles an hour."

"Why do you lay such stress on their walking fast?" asked Miss Laura.

"Because so much of the farm work must be done at a walk. Ploughing,
teaming, and drawing produce to market, and going up and down hills.
E