“Nary respec’ onless the horse kin do something. America’s paved with the kind er horse you are—jist plain yaller-dog horse—waitin’ ter be whipped inter shape. We call ’em yearlings an’ colts when they’re young. When they’re aged we pound ’em—in this pastur’. Horse, sonny, is what you start from. We know all about horse here, an’ he ain’t any high-toned, pure souled child o’ nature. Horse, plain horse, same ez you, is chock-full o’ tricks, an’ meannesses, an’ cussednesses, an’ shirkin’s, an’ monkey-shines, which he’s took over from his sire an’ his dam, an’ thickened up with his own special fancy in the way o’ goin’ crooked. Thet’s _horse,_ an’ thet’s about his dignity an’ the size of his soul ’fore he’s been broke an’ rawhided a piece. Now we ain’t goin’ to give ornery unswitched _horse_, that hain’t done nawthin’ wuth a quart of oats sence he wuz foaled, pet names that would be good enough fer Nancy Hanks, or Alix, or Directum, who _hev_. Don’t you try to back off acrost them rocks. Wait where you are! Ef I let my Hambletonian temper git the better o’ me I’d frazzle you out finer than rye-straw inside o’ three minutes, you woman-scarin’, kid-killin’, dash-breakin’, unbroke, unshod, ungaited, pastur’-hoggin’, saw-backed, shark-mouthed, hair-trunk-thrown-in-in-trade son of a bronco an’ a sewin’-machine!” “I think we’d better get home,” I said to my companion, when Rod had finished; and we climbed into the coupé, Tedda whinnying, as we bumped over the ledges: “Well, I’m dreffle sorry I can’t stay fer the sociable; but I hope an’ trust my friends’ll take a ticket fer me.” “Bet your natchul!” said Muldoon, cheerfully, and the horses scattered before us, trotting into the ravine. Next morning we sent back to the livery-stable what was left of the yellow horse. It seemed tired, but anxious to go. THE SHIP THAT FOUND HERSELF