Only be careful before engaging your pony to find out its previous
occupations. It is a necessary caution, I assure you. It once took me
nearly an hour to drive out of one of the smallest villages
imaginable. And why? Because my pony had formerly belonged to the
butcher, and insisted on first going his rounds! I coaxed, I
persuaded, I lashed him, but it was all of no avail. On he trotted
until he reached the familiar doors of his late customers, and then he
stopped and _would_ not go on for at least five minutes. One place
was worse than any. I could not get him away for over a
quarter-of-an-hour. This rather mystified me until I was told later
that the butcher was on "walking out" terms with the cook residing
there!




CHAPTER VIII.

ON TOWN.


There is not much difference of opinion as to when Town is at its
best. Perhaps a few misanthropists, wrapped up in their little selves
and their narrow thoughts, would shut themselves up during the season,
in order to escape the pain of witnessing us all in our ungodly
career. Shallow butterflies they call us. And what do they know about
our lives? They judge from appearances; and because we wear a cheerful
expression, shutting down our cares and struggles in our inmost
hearts, and not burdening other people with them, we are called