At that time illustrated comic journals were not so plentiful as to-day, but there were plenty in existence to caricature us and our equipage. Of course, with the exaggeration permissible in such cases, we were invested with elephantine proportions, like those of Ganesa, the Indian god of wisdom, while the ponies dwindled to the size of puppies,—or, even less, to that of rats and mice. It is true that, without great difficulty, we might have carried the little creatures, one under each arm, and the phaeton to boot upon our back. For a moment we debated the possibility of harnessing four, but this Liliputian four-in-hand would have been still more conspicuous. With great regret therefore (for we had already grown fond of the gentle creatures) we exchanged them for a pair of dappled-gray ponies of a larger size, with strong necks, wide chests, and massive shoulders, which, though far enough from being Mecklenburgers, at least looked capable of drawing grown people about. They were mares,—one named Jane and the other Betsey. In appearance they were as much alike as two drops of water. Never was a better match so far as looks went; but in proportion as Jane was mettlesome, Betsey was indolent. While the former pulled at the collar, the other trotted by her side contentedly, shirking work, and giving herself no sort of trouble. These two animals, of the same breed, the same age, fated to live in stalls side by side, felt for each other the strongest antipathy. They could not endure each other, fought in the stable, and snapped and bit when prancing in the traces. Nothing could reconcile them. It was a pity too, for with their brush-like manes cut like those of the horses of the Parthenon, their snorting nostrils and eyes dilated with fury, they presented rather a triumphant appearance when going up and down the Champs Elysées. We were obliged to look for a substitute for Betsey, and found one in a small mare with skin of a somewhat lighter color,—for the shade we wanted could not be exactly matched. Jane approved at once of this new-comer, with whom she seemed charmed, and did the honors of the stable in the most graceful way. The tenderest friendship was soon established between them; Jane would rest her head on the shoulder of Blanche,—thus named because her shade of gray bordered on white,—and when let loose in the courtyard for an airing, they would play together like dogs or children. If one was driven out in single harness, the other, left behind, seemed sad, gave signs of feeling lonely, and, when far away she heard the hoofs of her comrade sounding on the pavement, she raised a joyful neighing like the blast of a trumpet, to which her approaching friend never failed to respond.