“Ef the shoe fits, clinch it,” said Tedda, snorting. “_I_ named no names, though, to be sure, some folks are mean enough an’ greedy enough to do ’thout ’em.” “There’s a deal to be forgiven to ignorance,” said the yellow horse, with an ugly look in his blue eye. “Seemin’ly, yes; or some folks ’u’d ha’ been kicked raound the pasture ’bout onct a minute sence they came—board er no board.” “But what you do _not_ understand, if you will excuse me, madam, is that the whole principle o’ servitood, which includes keep an’ feed, starts from a radically false basis; an’ I am proud to say that me an’ the majority o’ the horses o’ Kansas think the entire concern should be relegated to the limbo of exploded superstitions. I say we’re too progressive for that. I say we’re too enlightened for that. ’Twas good enough’s long’s we didn’t think, but naow—but naow—a new loominary has arisen on the horizon!” “Meanin’ you?” said the Deacon. “The horses o’ Kansas are behind me with their multitoodinous thunderin’ hooves, an’ we say, simply but grandly, that we take our stand with all four feet on the inalienable rights of the horse, pure and simple,—the high-toned child o’ nature, fed by the same wavin’ grass, cooled by the same ripplin’ brook—yes, an’ warmed by the same gen’rous sun as falls impartially on the outside an’ the _in_side of the pampered machine o’ the trottin’-track, or the bloated coupé-horses o’ these yere Eastern cities. Are we not the same flesh an’ blood?” “Not by a bushel an’ a half,” said the Deacon, under his breath. “Grandee never was in Kansas.” “My! Ain’t that elegant, though, abaout the wavin’ grass an’ the ripplin’ brooks?” Tuck whispered in Nip’s ear. “The gentleman’s real convincin’, _I_ think.” “I say we _are_ the same flesh an’ blood! Are we to be separated, horse from horse, by the artificial barriers of a trottin’-record, or are we to look down upon each other on the strength o’ the gifts o’ nature—an extry inch below the knee, or slightly more powerful quarters? What’s the use o’ them advantages to you? Man the Oppressor comes along, an’ sees you’re likely an’ good-lookin’, an’ grinds you to the face o’ the earth. What for? For his own pleasure: for his own convenience! Young an’ old, black an’ bay, white an’ grey, there’s no distinctions made between us. We’re ground up together under the remorseless teeth o’ the engines of oppression!” “Guess his breechin’ must ha’ broke goin’ daown-hill,” said the Deacon. “Slippery road, maybe, an’ the buggy come onter him, an’ he didn’t know ’nough to hold back. That don’t feel like teeth, though. Maybe he busted a shaft, an’ it pricked him.”