ce than himself. He spent hours over
the effort. He coaxed the horse. He wheedled it. He remonstrated with
and reproved it. He tried the effect of the most endearing entreaties,
and assurances of personal esteem. Losing--no, becoming less amiable,
he flew round to the other extreme, and accused it of ingratitude,
indefensible even in an ass. Then he sought to bribe it with offers of
free forgiveness. After that he tried to frighten it with threats of
the most painful and every way horrible consequences; but whatever
effect all these varied influences might have had upon the horse's mind,
the one unvarying effect on its body was to send its tail and heels
towards the sky, while it neighed joyously and trotted around. Poor
Quashy went up to it smilingly--after that, frowningly; he cringed
towards it; he advanced straightforwardly; he sidled slily; he ran at
it; he rushed at it; he bounced at it; he yelled at it; he groaned at
it; he perspired after it; he went nearly mad over it, and, finally, he
sat down before it, and glared in deadly silence in its innocent face!

Then the unfortunate man, having spent a very considerable part of the
day thus, bethought him of trying to catch the other horse, but with it
he was also unsuccessful--indeed, the failure was even more emphatic,
for Lawrence's steed refused to let him come within even hopeful
distance of it.

At last, in the profoundest state of despair to which he was ever known
to have sunk, he returned to camp. Lawrence had got there before him,
saw him coming, and advanced to meet him.

"Well, Quashy, I have failed," he said, with a sigh.

"So's I," returned Quashy, with a growl.

"This losing of our horses," remarked Lawrence, "is the worst that could
have befallen us."

"No, massa," said the negro, with more of sulkiness--or less of
amiability--than he had exhibited since they first met on the western
side of the Andes, "breakin' our legs would be wuss--smashin' our necks
would be wusser still. But de hosses is _not_ lost. Dey's on'y
spunkerblued."

"How? What d'you mean?"

"Dey's down dar," returned the negro, pointing with his finger, "down in
dat holler--spunkerblued."

"Not killed, I hope," asked Lawrence, anxiously.

"Oh no, massa, on'y spunkerblued--stuffed to de muzzle wid deir own
self-will."

Lawrence received this explanation with a light laugh. "Come," he said,
quickly, "lead the way, Quash, and I'll show you how to get them out o