emain so; neither for wishing nor coaxing, for fair words
nor foul, would he stir. It seemed so horrid to have to dress and go out
in such a downpour of rain, that we weakly deliberated on the expediency
of letting the cunning old stock-horse remain; but fortunately, at
that moment he began to scratch his ear with his hind foot, waking up a
thousand echoes against the side of the house as he did so, and making
the pictures dance again on the canvas and paper walls. "This will never
do," cried we all, desperately: "he sure must be taken to the stable or
he'll come back again." That was exactly what Jack meant and wanted: so
to the stable he went, under poor shivering Mr. U----'s guidance, and
the old rogue spent a dry, warm night under its roof.

It was the more absurd Jack pretending to be afraid of a wet night, when
he had walked many and many a weary mile over the rough mountain passes
towards the West-Coast, with a heavy pack on his back and in all sorts
of weather. A tradition existed in our neighbourhood that Jack had once
been met crossing the Amuri Downs with a small barrel-organ, an American
cooking stove, and a sow with a litter of young ones, all packed on his
back, "and stepping out bravely under them all," as my informant added.
But I cannot vouch for the truth of the items of this load. Jack's fame
as a stock-horse, as well as a pack-horse, stood high in the Malvern
Hills, but his conduct in the shafts was eccentric, to say the least
of it. He could not bear to be guided by his driver, and was always
squinting over his blinkers in the most ridiculous manner. If he
perceived a mob of cattle or horses on a distant flat, he would set
off to have a look at them and determine whether they were strangers or
friends, dragging the gig after him "over bank, bush, and scaur."

Once when we were in great despair for a cart-horse, Jack was elected to
the post, but long before we had come to the journey's end we regretted
our choice. It was during the first summer of my life in the Malvern
Hills, and whilst the nor'-westers were still steadily setting their
breezy faces against such a new fangled idea as a lawn. I had wearied of
sowing grass seed at, a guinea a bag, long before those extremely rude
zephyrs got tired of blowing it all out of the ground. There was my
beautiful set of croquet, fresh from Jacques, lying idle in its box in
the verandah, and there was my charming friend, Alice S----, longing for
a game of cro