It was a crisp, cold night outside; starry, wintry, but open weather,
and clear; the ground would be just right on the morrow, neither hard
as the slate of a billiard-table, nor wet as the slush of a quagmire.
Forest King slept steadily on in his warm and spacious box, dreaming
doubtless of days of victory, cub-hunting in the reedy October woods and
pastures, of the ringing notes of the horn, and the sweet music of
the pack, and the glorious quick burst up-wind, breasting the icy cold
water, and showing the way over fence and bullfinch. Dozing and dreaming
pleasantly; but alert for all that; for he awoke suddenly, shook
himself, had a hilarious roll in the straw, and stood "at attention."

Awake only, could you tell the generous and gallant promise of his
perfect temper; for there are no eyes that speak more truly, none on
earth that are so beautiful, as the eyes of a horse. Forest King's were
dark as a gazelle's, soft as a woman's, brilliant as stars, a little
dreamy and mournful, and as infinitely caressing when he looked at what
he loved, as they could blaze full of light and fire when danger was
near and rivalry against him. How loyally such eyes have looked at me
over the paddock fence, as a wild, happy gallop was suddenly broken for
a gentle head to be softly pushed against my hand with the gentlest of
welcomes! They sadly put to shame the million human eyes that so fast
learn the lie of the world, and utter it as falsely as the lips.

The steeple-chaser stood alert, every fiber of his body strung to
pleasurable excitation; the door opened, a hand held him some sugar, and
the voice he loved best said fondly, "All right, old boy?"

Forest King devoured the beloved dainty with true equine unction, rubbed
his forehead against his master's shoulder, and pushed his nose into the
nearest pocket in search for more of his sweetmeat.