the dust, has made him gummy, sticky and shaggy. The horse
looks like a wrathy porcupine: you are afraid he will be foundered, and
you caress him with the whip-lash in a melancholy way that he perfectly
understands, for he moves his head about like an omnibus horse, tired of
his deplorable existence.

You think a good deal of this horse; your consider him an excellent one
and he cost you twelve hundred francs. When a man has the honor of being
the father of a family, he thinks as much of twelve hundred francs as
you think of this horse. You see at once the frightful amount of your
extra expenses, in case Coco should have to lie by. For two days you
will have to take hackney coaches to go to your business. You wife will
pout if she can't go out: but she will go out, and take a carriage. The
horse will cause the purchase of numerous extras, which you will find
in your coachman's bill,--your only coachman, a model coachman, whom you
watch as you do a model anybody.

To these thoughts you give expression in the gentle movement of the whip
as it falls upon the animal's ribs, up to his knees in the black dust
which lines the road in front of La Verrerie.

At this moment, little Adolphe, who doesn't know what to do in this
rolling box, has sadly twisted himself up into a corner, and his
grandmother anxiously asks him, "What is the matter?"

"I'm hungry," says the child.

"He's hungry," says the mother to her daughter.

"And why shouldn't he be hungry? It is half-past five, we are not at the
barrier, and we started at two!"

"Your husband might have treated us to dinner in the country."

"He'd rather make his horse go a couple of leagues further, and get back
to the house."

"The cook might have had the day to herself. But Adolphe is right, after
all: it's cheaper to dine at home," adds the mother-in-law.

"Adolphe," exclaims your wife, stimulated by the word "cheaper," "we
go so slow that I shall be seasick, and you keep driving right in this
nasty dust. What are you thinking of? My gown and hat will be ruined!"

"Would you rather ruin the horse?" you ask, with the air of a man who
can't be answered.

"Oh, no matter for your horse; just think of your son who is dying
of hunger: he hasn't tasted a thing for seven hours. Whip up your old
horse! One would really think you cared more for your nag than for your
child!"

You dare not give your horse a single crack with the whip, for he might
still have vigor enough l