“Oh,” said Jim, with an air of modesty, “I presume any part of the country has its drawbacks. The soil of Missouri is magnificent and the climate superb—as a rule. I presume there are sterile spots within the boundaries of the State, and I have experienced some unpleasant weather. The winter that old Jake died was unusually severe.” “Who was Jake?” “A mule, and the dumb companion of my innocent boyhood. You see, I always wanted a dog. Lots of boys I knew had dogs. Tom Jones had a shepherd, Pete Boogers had a collie, Muck Robbins had a yaller cur, and Runt Hatch had two bull purps. I pestered paw for a dog. He didn’t have any use for dogs, and he wouldn’t give me one. I told him I must have a pet of some kind. ‘All right, Jim,’ says he, ‘if you want a pet, there’s Jake, our old mule, you may have him.’ Now, Jake was pretty well used up. He was spavined and chest foundered and so thin his slats were coming through his hide. He wasn’t beautiful, but he had been a faithful old creature, and paw was disinclined to kill him. He thought it was a great joke to give me Jake for a pet; but I was just yearning for something on which I could lavish my affection, and I began to pour it out on Jake. “I petted the old boy, gave him good feed, took him into the cowshed nights, and did my best to make him generally comfortable. Jake appreciated it. You may think dumb creatures, and mules in particular, have no sense of gratitude, but such is not the case. Jake understood me, and I did him. I could actually read his thoughts. Yes, sir, it’s a fact. At first paw grinned over it and tried to joke me about Jake; but after a while he got tired of having his best feed given that old mule and finding the animal bedded down in the cowshed. He said it would have to stop. Then he got mad and turned Jake out to pick for himself. I brought Jake back twice, but both times paw raised a fuss, and the last time, he got so blazing mad he swore he’d knock the mule in the head if I did it again. “That was in the fall, with winter coming on. I tried to plead with paw; but it was no go. He said Jake would have to shift for himself in the open. Jake used to come up to the lower fence and call to me melodiously in the gloaming, and I would slip down and pat him and talk to him and sympathize with him. But I didn’t dare do anything more. Well, that winter was a tough one. Never had so much cold weather packed into one winter before that. Jake suffered from exposure, and my heart bled for him. He grew thinner and thinner and sadder and sadder. Paw’s heart was like flint, and I couldn’t do anything. Jake hated snowstorms. Every time one came he thought it would be his last; but somehow he worried through them all until the snow went off and spring set in. Then Jake brightened up some and seemed more like himself.