“Just look at these lips, Joe,” said Mr. Wood; “delicate and fine like our own, and yet there are brutes that will jerk them as if they were made of iron.  I wish the Lord would give horses voices just for one week.  I tell you they’d scare some of us.  Now, Pacer, that’s over.  I’m not going to dose you much, for I don’t believe in it.  If a horse has got a serious trouble, get a good horse doctor, say I. If it’s a simple thing, try a simple remedy.  There’s been many a good horse drugged and dosed to death.  Well, Scamp, my beauty, how are you, this morning?”

In the stall next to Pacer, was a small, jet-black mare, with a lean head, slender legs, and a curious restless manner.  She was a regular greyhound of a horse, no spare flesh, yet wiry and able to do a great deal of work.  She was a wicked looking little thing, so I thought I had better keep at a safe distance from her heels.

Mr. Wood petted her a great deal and I saw that she was his favorite.  “Saucebox,” he exclaimed, when she pretended to bite him, “you know if you bite me, I’ll bite back again.  I think I’ve conquered you,” he said, proudly, as he stroked her glossy neck; “but what a dance you led me.  Do you remember how I bought you for a mere song, because you had a bad habit of turning around like a flash in front of anything that frightened you, and bolting off the other way?  And how did I cure you, my beauty?  Beat you and make you stubborn?  Not I. I let you go round and round; I turned you and twisted you, the oftener the better for me, till at last I got it into your pretty head that turning and twisting was addling your brains, and you had better let me be master.

“You’ve minded me from that day, haven’t you?  Horse, or man, or dog aren’t much good till they learn to obey, and I’ve thrown you down and I’ll do it again if you bite me, so take care.”

Scamp tossed her pretty head, and took little pieces of Mr. Wood’s shirt sleeve in her mouth, keeping her cunning brown eye on him as if to see how far she could go.  But she did not bite him.  I think she loved him, for when he left her she whinnied shrilly, and he had to go back and stroke and caress her.

After that I often used to watch her as she went about the farm.  She always seemed to be tugging and striving at her load, and trying to step out fast and do a great deal of work.  Mr. Wood was usually driving her.  The men didn’t like her, and couldn’t manage her.  She had not been properly broken in.

After Mr. Wood finished his work he went and stood in the doorway.  There were six horses altogether:  Dutchman, Cleve, Pacer, Scamp, a bay mare called Ruby, and a young horse belonging to Mr. Harry, whose name was Fleetfoot.

“What do you think of them all?” said Mr. Wood, looking down at me.  “A pretty fine-looking lot of horses, aren’t they?  Not a thoroughbred there, but worth as much to me as if each had pedigree as long as this plank walk.  There’s a lot of humbug about this pedigree business in horses.  Mine have their manes and tails anyway, and the proper use of their eyes, which is more liberty than some thoroughbreds get.