“An’ I come to you from Kansas, wavin’ the tail o’ friendship to all an’ sundry, an’ in the name of the uncounted millions o’ pure-minded, high-toned horses now strugglin’ towards the light o’ freedom, I say to you, Rub noses with us in our sacred an’ holy cause. The power is yourn. Without you, I say, Man the Oppressor cannot move himself from place to place. Without you he cannot reap, he cannot sow, he cannot plough.” “Mighty odd place, Kansas!” said Marcus Aurelius Antoninus. “Seemin’ly they reap in the spring an’ plough in the fall. ’Guess it’s right fer them, but ’twould make me kinder giddy.” “The produc’s of your untirin’ industry would rot on the ground if you did not weakly consent to help him. _Let_ ’em rot, I say! Let him call you to the stables in vain an’ nevermore! Let him shake his ensnarin’ oats under your nose in vain! Let the Brahmas roost in the buggy, an’ the rats run riot round the reaper! Let him walk on his two hind feet till they blame well drop off! Win no more soul-destroin’ races for his pleasure! Then, an’ not till then, will Man the Oppressor know where he’s at. Quit workin’, fellow-sufferers an’ slaves! Kick! Rear! Plunge! Lie down on the shafts, an’ woller! Smash an’ destroy! The conflict will be but short, an’ the victory is certain. After that we can press our inalienable rights to eight quarts o’ oats a day, two good blankets, an’ a fly-net an’ the best o’ stablin’.” The yellow horse shut his yellow teeth with a triumphant snap; and Tuck said, with a sigh: “Seems’s if somethin’ ought to be done. Don’t seem right, somehow,—oppressin’ us an all,—to my way o’ thinkin’.” Said Muldoon, in a far-away and sleepy voice: “Who in Vermont’s goin’ to haul de inalienable oats? Dey weigh like Sam Hill, an’ sixty bushel at dat allowance ain’t goin’ to last t’ree weeks here. An’ dere’s de winter hay for five mont’s!” “We can settle those minor details when the great cause is won,” said the yellow horse. “Let us return simply but grandly to our inalienable rights—the right o’ freedom on these yere verdant hills, an’ no invijjus distinctions o’ track an’ pedigree:” “What in stables ’jer call an invijjus distinction?” said the Deacon, stiffly. “Fer one thing, bein’ a bloated, pampered trotter jest because you happen to be raised that way, an’ couldn’t no more help trottin’ than eatin’.” “Do ye know anythin’ about trotters?” said the Deacon. “I’ve seen ’em trot. That was enough for me. _I_ don’t want to know any more. Trottin’s immoral.”