But Brownies are not poetical fairies, quite commonplace, and up to all sorts of work. So, while he talked, he was saddling and bridling Jess, she not objecting in the least. Finally, he jumped on her back. "'Off, said the stranger--off, off, and away!'" sang Brownie mimicking a song of the Cook's. People in that house often heard their songs repeated in the oddest way, from room to room, everybody fancying it was somebody else that did it. But it was only the Brownie. "Now, 'A southerly wind and a cloudy sky proclaim a hunting morning!'" Or night--for it was the middle of the night, though bright as day--and Jess galloped and the Brownie sat on her back as merrily as if they had gone hunting together all their days. Such a steeple-chase it was! They cleared the farmyard at a single bound, and went flying down the road, and across the ploughed field, and into the wood. Then out into the open country, and by-and-by into a dark, muddy lane--and oh! how muddy Devonshire lanes can be sometimes! "Let's go into the water to wash ourselves," said Brownie, and coaxed Jess into a deep stream, which she swam as bravely as possible--she had not had such a frolic since she left her native Shetland Isles. Up the bank she scrambled, her long hair dripping as if she had been a water-dog instead of a pony. Brownie, too, shook himself like a rat or a beaver, throwing a shower round him in all directions. "Never mind; at it again, my lass!" and he urged Jess into the water once more. Out she came, wetter and brisker than ever, and went back home again through the lane, and the wood, and the ploughed field, galloping like the wind, and tossing back her ears and mane and tail, perfectly frantic with enjoyment. But when she reached her stable, the plight she was in would have driven any respectable groom frantic too. Her sides were white with foam, and the mud was sticking all over her like a plaster. As for her beautiful long hair, it was all caked together in a tangle, as if all the combs in the world would never make it smooth again. Her mane especially was plaited into knots, which people in Devonshire call elf-locks, and say, when they find them on their horses, that it is because the fairies have been riding them. Certainly, poor Jess had been pretty well ridden that night. When just as the dawn began to break, Gardener got up and looked into the farmyard, his sharp eye caught sight of the stable-door wide open. "Well done, Bill," shouted he, "up early at last. One hour before breakfast is worth three after." But no Bill was there; only Jess, trembling and shaking, all in a foam, and muddy from head to foot, but looking perfectly cheerful in her mind. And out from under her fore legs ran a small creature which Gardener mistook for Tiny, only Tiny was gray, and this dog was brown, of course!