“Why, I said this, sir. ‘Nanny,’ says I, ‘we’re off directly instant,’ says I; ‘and you must come along with us,’ says I; ‘and I’ll milk you morning and evening,’ says I. ‘And then the cappn, and this here hommerble jeddleham what’s present,’ says I, ‘won’t never not want milk for their tea,’ says I, ‘nor yet for their breakfast nayther,’ says I.” “Well, and what does nanny say?” asked I, almost laughing at this stroke of generalship. “Please, sir,” replied Jones, “she says she’s quite agreeable, sir; that is, if you are, sir. That’s what she says, sir.” “Oh, very well.” Had Jones and I been better acquainted, I might have felt it needful to ask first, how nanny had passed into his possession. “Thank yer honour,” said Jones, springing on his feet. “That’s jest the very thing as I was a-going to aast yer honour. Much obleeged to yer honour. Purty creatur! Nothing to her, a day’s march, sir. Won’t mind it the least in the world, sir. Come in quite fresh, sir.” As I was walking out of the yard, Jones ran after me,—“Please, sir, if the cappn makes any objections, when he siz nanny coming on along with us, sir, please just tell him she’s a nanny, sir; that is, I means to say, a femmel, sir, and giz milk, sir. Then he won’t have nothing to say against her, sir.” Nanny did actually accompany our march to headquarters; and not only gave us milk, regularly twice a-day, but on one occasion rendered us a far more important service. She became the pet of the men, and soon knocked up an acquaintance with the pony. Sancho and nanny travelled side by side; except that nanny’s line of march was now and then excursive; on which occasions the pony expressed his uneasiness by turning his head to look, with an impatient snort. Nanny was certainly not undeserving of Jones’s commendations of her beauty. Not one of that homebred race, of vulgar aspect, ungainly form, and short, coarse coat, so common both in this country and abroad—a race that lose all their sprightliness when they cease to be kids, and become full-grown goats;—in form she resembled the antelope; her step was that of goats that haunt the precipice, the pinnacle, and the glacier; elegance was in all her movements; and her hair, fine, flowing, and luxuriant—in colour a beautiful light orange-tawny, softening into an amber yellow, pale and delicate—with its snow-white fringe almost sweeping the ground. A dainty hussy, too, was Miss Nanny. She had her luxuries, and scorned to browse on common grass: culled her tidbits by the road-side, as she trotted along—a nibble here, and a nibble there; was partial to biscuit broken small, and wouldn’t refuse a crumb of cheese. Didn’t care for bread, except when she could steal it—her only vice—off the table before dinner; an object which she easily effected, by raising herself on her hind-legs. At the end of the march, as Jones had predicted, she always came in as fresh as she started; and proved it, wherever we were, by