Both in the stable and out of it, that pony had a bluff way with his heels, which none but himself thought humorous. He never meant any harm, however—it was only his mode of expressing himself; and he liked to make a point when he felt his new shoes tingling. But as for kicking his Amy, he was not quite so low as that. He would not even jump about, when she was on his back, more than was just the proper thing to display her skill and figure. “Oh, you sad Coræby”, always brought him to sadness; and he expected a pat from her little gloved hand, and cocked his tail with dignity the moment he received it. Nevertheless, for her father, the rector of the parish, he entertained, when the oats were plentiful, nonconformist sentiments, verging almost upon scepticism. He liked him indeed, as the whole world must; he even admired his learning, and turned up his eyes at the Greek; but he was not impressed, as he should have been, by the sacerdotal office. Fatal defect of all, he knew that the rector could not ride. John Rosedew was a reasoning man, and uncommonly strong in the legs, but a great deal too philosophical to fit himself over a horse well. He had written a treatise upon the Pelethronian Lapiths (which he could never be brought to read before a learned society), he knew all about the Olympics and Pythics, and Xenophon gave him a text–book; but, for all that, he never put his feet the right way into the stirrups. “Look at him now”, said John, as the boy led the pony up and down, while Amy was knotting the mufflers so that they never might come undone again; “how beautifully Xenophon describes him! ‘When the horse is excited to assume that artificial air which he adopts when he is proud, he then delights in riding, becomes magnificent, terrific, and attracts attention!’ And again, ‘persons beholding such a horse pronounce him generous, free in his motions, fit for military exercise, high–mettled, haughty, and both pleasant and terrible to look on’. Pleasant, I suppose, for other people, and terrible for the rider. But why our author insists so much upon the horse being taught to ‘rear gracefully’, I am not horseman enough as yet to understand. It has always appeared to me that Coræbus rears too much already. And then the direction—ʼbut if after riding, and copious perspiration, and when he has reared gracefully, he be relieved immediately both of the rider and reins, there is little doubt that he will spontaneously advance to rear when necessary’. What does that mean, I ask you? I never find it necessary, except, indeed, when the little girls jump up and pull my coat–tails, in their inquisition for apples, and then I am always afraid that they may suffer some detriment. But let us not overtask his patience; here he comes again. Jem, my boy, lead him up to the chair”. “Any jam in your pocket, father”?