Mrs. Sparrowgrass got a little nervous, and twitched me by the skirt of
the coat "Dear," said she, "let him go." I assured her that I would not
buy the horse, and told the man firmly I would not buy him. He said,
very well--if he didn't suit 'twas no use to keep a-talkin': but he
added, he'd be down agin' with another horse, next morning, that
belonged to his brother; and if he didn't suit me, then I didn't want a
horse. With this remark he rode off....

"It rains very hard," said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, looking out of the window
next morning. Sure enough, the rain was sweeping broadcast over the
country, and the four Sparrowgrassii were flattening a quartet of noses
against the window-panes, believing most faithfully the man would bring
the horse that belonged to his brother, in spite of the elements. It was
hoping against hope; no man having a horse to sell will trot him out in
a rainstorm, unless he intend to sell him at a bargain--but childhood is
so credulous! The succeeding morning was bright, however, and down came
the horse. He had been very cleverly groomed, and looked pleasant under
the saddle. The man led him back and forth before the door. "There,
'squire, 's as good a hos as ever stood on iron." Mrs. Sparrowgrass
asked me what he meant by that. I replied, it was a figurative way of
expressing, in horse-talk, that he was as good a horse as ever stood in
shoe-leather. "He's a handsome hos, 'squire," said the man. I replied
that he did seem to be a good-looking animal; but, said I, "he does not
quite come up to the description of a horse I have read." "Whose hos was
it?" said he. I replied it was the horse of Adonis. He said he didn't
know him; but, he added, "there is so many hosses stolen, that the
descriptions are stuck up now pretty common." To put him at his ease
(for he seemed to think I suspected him of having stolen the horse), I
told him the description I meant had been written some hundreds of years
ago by Shakespeare, and repeated it: