blades and the clover when it is young,--do you love to hear the birds
sing and the brook murmur, and do you enjoy living under the trees and
watching the clouds chase the sunbeams as you chew your cud? Do you
wonder why the cold winter comes and you have to be shut up in a stall
with a different kind of fodder? Do you ever wonder who gave you life
and what you are meant to do with it? How I wish you could talk, old
lady!"

He vaulted over the gate, and whistling to a fine collie who came
bounding to meet him, walked slowly on towards the stables.

"Hulloa, John!" and a boy about two years his junior threw himself off a
horse reeking with foam. "Rub Sultan down a bit like a good fellow.
There'll be the worst kind of a row if the governor sees him in this
pickle."

John Randolph looked indignantly at the handsome horse, as he stood with
drooping head and wide distended nostrils, while the white foam dripped
over his delicate legs.

"Serve you right if there were!" and his voice was full of scorn.
"You're about as fit to handle horseflesh as an Esquimaux."

"Oh, pish! You're a regular old grandmother, John. There's nothing to
make such a row about." And Reginald Hawthorne turned upon his heel.

John threw off coat and vest, and, rolling up his sleeves, led the
exhausted horse to the currying ground. Reginald followed slowly, his
hands in his pockets.