It is perhaps rather difficult to believe this little tale, but it is absolutely true from beginning to end, and has been written in order to give the little people who reside in that section of New York an opportunity to see and know big Jack, for I do assure you he is well worth seeing and knowing. There are, I dare say, a great many very clever and very beautiful horses in our big city. Indeed, Wee Winkles and I know several ourselves. “Billy Borden,” for instance, who knows his milk route so well that his driver has only to say, “8 West Sixty-sixth, Billy,” or “9 West Sixty-fifth, Billy,” to have him go at once to these addresses, or any other with which he is familiar. Again, he will say: “No milk here to-day, Billy,” and Billy jogs on. Then there is “Dan Sorrel,” who draws the milk-wagon which takes the milk to Central Park Dairy every morning. His driver often amuses the children who gather about his pet by saying: “Now, Dan, I believe you are a Democrat.” “No!” shakes the head. “What! a Republican?” “Yes, yes, yes!” and a stamping of both front feet, while the tail is slashed about like a banner to emphasize his sentiments. Dan is great fun. Nor must we forget our old pet “Jingo” of the mounted policemen’s horses; for he was truly wonderful, and I might go on almost endlessly telling of his remarkable sagacity and cleverness. Jingo and Wee Winkles were warm friends, for Winkles spent two winters in a home very near the West Seventy-second Street entrance to the Park, and each sunshiny day carried her lump of sugar to Jingo, who would perform all sorts of tricks in order to win his reward. He would waltz, go down upon his knees, shake hands, fetch a pocket-handkerchief which she made believe she had dropped, whisper in his rider’s ear, and do many things besides. It is a never-ending source of surprise to me that so few people seem to understand the wonderful intelligence of horses, or the marvelous possibilities in developing that intelligence. All my life I have either had horses of my own or been so fortunately situated that I might make the acquaintance of those belonging to others. I use the word “acquaintance” advisedly, for one _must_ become acquainted, must be in sympathy with them, before they will show the best side of their horse natures. I have frequently stopped in the street beside a horse who looked as though life had been a hard struggle for him, and whose every line of face and attitude showed a stolid endurance of the inevitable, as if fate had settled his lot beyond all power to change, and nothing remained but to endure and wait until death put an end to it all. After standing for a few moments unnoticed,--as though the poor creature were thinking within itself, “She is only one more, like all the rest, and will either pass on and take no notice of me, or say, ‘Get out of the way, you brute,’”--I would say softly, but without moving, “Come here, old fellow.”