h to take home with
him." After communicating his name and business, and sundry other
particulars, with a frankness which, while it satisfied the curiosity,
excited the contempt of Major Spike, the stranger, whom we shall call
Zebulon Smith, departed.

He had a business call to make on the widow Stebbins, who lived about
three miles off, in a very old, unfinished, shingled house, of immense
extent, in the centre of an unfenced lot, the chief products of which
were rocks, brambles, and barberry bushes.

"Keep much stock, Miss Stebbins?" said he, as, having transacted his
business, he prepared to resume his journey.

"Why, no," said she; "I'm a lone woman, and hain't got no help; so I
keep only a cow and that 'ere colt. I wish I could sell him, for I
ain't got nobody to break him in properly."

Zebulon looked at the colt. He was a limpsey, long-legged, shaggy
animal, with a ewe-neck, drooping head, and little, undecided tail,
completely knotted up with burs; but then he was only five years old.

"Heow'll yeou trade, Miss Stebbins?" asked the agent. "I've a mind to
take the critter, if you'll trade even, though I don't know the pints
of a horse. I ain't a horse jockey. Heowever, you're a lone woman, and
I want to oblige you. You hain't got nobody to break the colt for you,
and here's my hoss would suit you to a T. He's a nice family hoss."

"Heow old is he?" asked Mrs. Stebbins.

"He's _risin'_ six years," said Zebulon, and so he was.

"He looks pretty well along," said the widow. "How much boot will you
give me?"

"Boot!" exclaimed Zebulon. "O, if you talk about boot, I'm off. I
ain't no horse jockey, but I know I'm flingin' my hoss--good old
hoss--away by tradin' even. But generosity and consideration for
widders--specially good-lookin' ones--was allers a failin' in my
family."

"I don't know as I had orter," said the widow, thoughtfully; "if Mr.
Stebbins was alive, you wouldn't get the colt so cheap, for he sot
every thing by him. He's sot his pedigree down in the births, deaths,
and marriages, in our family Bible. He allers said, poor man, he was
goin' to make a great hoss."

"That 'ere was an optical delusion," said the agent; "he warn't never
a goin' to make a great hoss, and he won't never be a great hoss. I
know so much, if I ain't a horse jockey. Come, now, what say? Shall I
ungear, and leave my critter, or put on the string and be a
travellin'?"

"You may have the colt," said the widow, bursting i