I took that horse by the ear and whispered therein just what I thought about him, but he wouldn't talk back. I told him my wife's honor was at stake, but he looked my wife over and his lips curled with an expression which seemed to say, "Impossible." It was all off with us. Parsifal simply wouldn't move until that sobbing Choo Choo Wagon had left the neighborhood, so I went inside the road-house to find the owner. I found him. He consisted of a German chauffeur and eight bottles of beer. When I explained the pitiful situation to him the chauffeur swallowed two bottles of beer and began to cry. Then he told the waiter to call him at 7:30, and he put his head down on the table and went to sleep with his face in a cute little nest of hard-boiled cigarettes. I rushed to the telephone and called up the liveryman, but before I could think of a word strong enough to fit the occasion he whispered over the wire, "I know your voice, Mr. Henry. I suppose Parsifal is waiting for you outside!" Forthwith I tried to tell that liveryman just what I thought about him and Parsifal, but the telephone girl short-circuited my remarks and they came back and set fire to the woodwork. "My, my!" I could hear the liveryman saying. "Parsifal's hesitation must be the result of the epidemic of automobiles which is now raging over our country roads. The automobile has a strange effect on Parsifal. It seems to cover him with a pause and gives him inflammation of the speed." I thought of poor Peaches sitting out there in that blushing buggy staring at a dreaming horse, while in front of her a Red Devil Wagon complained internally and shook its tonneau at her, and once more I jolted that liveryman with a few verbal twisters. "Don't get excited," he whispered back over the phone. "Parsifal is a new idea in horses. Whenever he meets an automobile he goes to sleep and tries to forget it. Isn't that better than running away and dragging you to a hospital? There must be something about an automobile that affects Parsifal's heart. I think it is the gasolene. The odor from the gasolene seems to penetrate his mind to the region of his memory and he forgets to move. Parsifal is a fine horse, with a most lovable disposition, but when the air becomes charged with gasolene he forgets his duty and falls asleep at the switch." I went out and explained to my wife that Parsifal was a victim of the gasolene habit, and that he would never leave that spot until the Bubble went away, and that the Bubble couldn't go away until the _chauffeur_ could wake up, and that the chauffeur couldn't wake up until his mind had digested a lot of wood alcohol, so she jumped out of the buggy and we walked home. Parsifal may be a new idea in horses, but the next time I go buggy riding it will be in a street car. When we reached home that afternoon I found a note from Bunch which cheered me up wonderfully. The note read as follows: CITY, Sunday Morning.