“Much longer than they are allowed to live in this country,” he answered. “And a part of our punishment is that we do not know them. We treat them so selfishly that they do not live long enough to become our friends. At present there are but few men worthy of their friendship. What else is a man’s admiration, when it is without love or respect or justice, but a bitter form of despite! It is small wonder there should be so many stupid horses, when they receive so little education, have such bad associates, and die so much too young to have gained any ripe experience to transmit to their posterity. Where would humanity be now, if we all went before five-and-twenty?” “I think you must be right. I have myself in my possession at this moment, given me by one who loved her, an ink-stand made from the hoof of a pony that died at the age of at least forty-two, and did her part of the work of a pair till within a year or two of her death.--Poor little Zephyr!” “Why, Mr. Gowrie, you talk of her as if she were a Christian!” exclaimed Mr. Skymer. “That’s how you talked of Memnon a moment ago! Where is the difference? Not in the size, though Memnon would make three of Zephyr!” “I didn’t say _poor Memnon_, did I? You said _poor Zephyr_! That is the way Christians talk about their friends gone home to the grand old family mansion! Why they do, they would hardly like one to tell them!” “It is true,” I responded. “I understand you now! I don’t think I ever heard a widow speak of her departed husband without putting _poor_, or _poor dear_, before his name.--By the way, when you hear a woman speak of her _late_ husband, can you help thinking her ready to marry again?” “It does sound as if she had done with him! But here we are at the gate!--Call, Memnon.” The horse gave a clear whinny, gentle, but loud enough to be heard at some distance. It was a tall gate of wrought iron, but Memnon’s summons was answered by one who could clear it--though not open it any more than he: a little bird, which I was not ornithologist enough to recognize--mainly because of my short-sightedness, I hope--came fluttering from the long avenue within, perched on the top of the gate, looked down at our party for a moment as if debating the prudent, dropped suddenly on Memnon’s left ear, and thence to his master’s shoulder, where he sat till the gate was opened. The little one went half-way up the inner avenue with us, making several flights and returns before he left us. The boy that opened the gate, a chubby little fellow of seven, looked up in Mr. Skymer’s face as if he had been his father and king in one, and stood gazing after him as long as he was in sight. I noticed also--who could have failed to notice?--that every now and then a bird would drop from the tree we were passing under, and alight for a minute on my host’s head. Once when he happened to uncover it, seven or eight perched together upon it. One tiny bird got caught in his beard by the claws.