sleep, he folded his arms, rested them against her side, and laying his head upon them, remained there in a sound slumber. It was presumed they had been in this posture a long time; and, had she moved, his life would probably have been endangered by the fall, for they were close to a steep declivity. On another occasion she came home, neighed at the door of the dwelling, and did not offer to go to the stable; the family were aroused, servants rose, she trotted back, and stood by her master, who was lying senseless by the side of the road. They must have fallen together, as on his chest was the mark of one of her feet, probably made in getting up again. He was only stunned, and in a few days recovered from his fall, while she was more than ever loved. She was a chestnut mare, with a white star; and very like her, was another, called Peggy, which, from having belonged especially to our mother, we, as children, claimed as ours also; and I have always, when recollecting her, been able to picture to myself the intimacy between horses and human beings in an Arab family. We crawled over her, we seated ourselves upon her without bridle or saddle, we clung to her neck when she had no room for us on her back, and we sat upon her as she herself lay in her stall. When she was ill, we administered the medicine, almost quarreling as to who should take the gruel to her; when she heard our voices, whatever pain she was in, she saluted us with a neigh; she was patient under every infliction, accommodated herself to every fancy, and, with her prudence and good temper, was often instrumental to our safety. Although she had been a hunter, and was a lady's horse, she went well in harness, and used to run in a curricle, with all the fiery spirits whom my father chose to drive; and we must have been dashed to pieces more than once, but for her steadiness and forbearance. At last, we were obliged to part with her; that is, we were going to live where we could not keep her; and a friend took her into his park, where she was to remain free all the rest of her life. Five years after, I was sitting at an open window, in the neighbourhood of the metropolis, and a sound met my ear. "If ever I heard Peggy's step," I exclaimed, "that is it; she is now coming along the road." I was disbelieved; but in one minute after, the still beautiful creature, though thirty-three years old, was at the gate: we rushed to her; we called her; she answered us; she danced about; she rubbed her face against ours; she looked for the same caresses, the same niceties which she used to get from us--and half an hour quickly passed in mutual caresses. The gentleman in whose park she had been living, had found her so fresh, that he had ridden her by easy journeys, to London, and during his few days' visit, sent her to see us--she lived two years after that, and died of old age, without a struggle. [Illustration: WILD HORSES AND WOLVES.--Page 330.]