in it, quite unmindful of the dry-goods that might be attached to the saddle.

I said that Jess had a will of her own. Only once in all our intercourse did this become a wilfulness that triumphed over the spirit of obedience. She had espied the windmill afar off; we had already made our twenty miles, and it was nearing noon. We were both thinking of dinner. We stopped to drink near a magnificent barn, but a miserable house. The barn door was open. The air was fragrant with the smell of new-mown hay, but the aroma from the kitchen was not so inspiring. The outlook for Jess was most satisfactory; for her rider it was dubious, and he concluded to push on. To the intense disappointment of his silent companion, he started on afoot. Without a word of apology or command he passed out of the yard, through the gate, into the road, and then looked back. Jess had not started; she was looking wistfully into the barn. I spoke to her; she shook her head impatiently, and took a few steps toward the barn. I called authoritatively. It was a critical moment; the haymakers were watching us with an amused expectation that I would have to back down and return for my horse. I started on

down the road, and to their surprise and my great relief, Jess, with drooping head and spiritless gait, reluctantly turned to the road and followed, like a sulky child, a long way behind.

All this while I felt that the outcome was still dubious, but I walked on, hoping she would forget the barn. A hot quarter of a mile of dusty road, and then came the shady woods at the edge of which I meant to mount and hurry along to wherever our dinner might be. Jess was a long way behind, six or eight rods. When I stopped she stopped, and when I spoke, instead of the usual prompt response she shook her head. We stood a full minute, both suffering acutely from different anxieties. I did not want to be beaten, or to lose my horse; she did not want to disobey, neither did she want to lose her dinner. I called in vain, and when I started to go toward her the scales turned, and the strong will of the horse triumphed; she turned, and with a brisk trot retraced the quarter of a mile of dusty road and entered the barn unbidden. I followed sheepishly, too much amused to be angry. The farmer greeted me afar with a jeer, "That's the time you got left, sir, I think." I thought Jess would restore something of my self

respect by appearing guilty and somewhat afraid of me, but there were no signs of either. With her mouth full of delicious clover she turned her

bright eyes upon me in perfect satisfaction, and said as plainly as a horse could say: "Don't be a fool, now. Take this bit out of my mouth, and you go and get your dinner." Contrary to all rules of horsemanship, I did not punish, and I did not have my own way, but gracefully surrendered and took Jess's advice. The confident in which she banked, not only on my good sense but also my good nature, is a source of pride and satisfaction to me to this day.

way

Says Colonel Dodge of the United States service, "Never solicit a battle with a horse, but when it is on never give up unless you want to lose your power over that horse ever after." I violated the colonel's rule. The penalty did not follow. Jess and I never alluded to that affair again, and I think our mutual respect was increased by the experience. A thousand similar temptations came afterward. She followed me for hundreds of miles under trying circumstances, but she never deserted me again, never disappointed me or betrayed my trust. My pathway through life has been lined with friends good

and true, helpers faithful and loyal. I am ungrateful to none of them when I put my loving and loyal Jess, the silent companion of the road, to whom I could give so little, from whom I received so much, alongside of and with the most faithful friends of my life.

I wish I could prove what is so clear to me, that this trust of Jess which overcame her fear, that this loyalty which directed and often overcame her ardent and impulsive desires and wishes, was rooted in intelligence. There is no more exploded and unphilosophic distinction in all the realms of psychology than the old distinction between instinct and reason, by means of which man flatters himself with an imaginary chasm between himself and the brute. Was it not an act of judgment, aye, a long process of reasoning, that connected the windmill with the water, that overcame the terror of the clatter and gave her courage to wait while the pump was doing its work?

When I first began to ride her, my third leg, the indispensable cane that pieces out an ankle with an army memory, was a great annoyance to her, an ever present menace. But there came a time when she realized that the cane was of service to me and no harm to her, and many a time

have I been reminded of my carelessness by her unwillingness to start while my cane was left on the ground; often did she remind me that I had thoughtlessly dropped it, by stopping abruptly in the road and waiting for me to discover my loss and regain my property. Once I remember she broke from her easy gait into an abrupt halt. I rebuked her, man fashion, and urged her on. She moved with stiff and reluctant step, her ears turned back in manifest displeasure. She was

loath to resume the springing gait which usually made her back so delightful. I thought she was getting lame, and looked to her shoes. Some time after this, when I had forgotten her discomfort, I suddenly discovered that my overcoat was missing from the cantle of my saddle. It was evident that she had not yet forgotten it. With a glad "I told you so" air, she accepted my slightest invitation to retrace her steps, something which under ordinary circumstances she never could respect, and with eager, far-reaching strides she covered the intervening half-mile or more and brought up with a toss of her head beside the bundle, of which she would have been very suspicious if she had not known perfectly well what it was.