because I ought, not because
I easily can;
For what with your legs and your pommels (I mean the saddle’s pommels),
it would be much easier always to ride like a man. 
Boys look braver, but I think it’s really more dangerous to ride
sideways, because of the saddle slipping round. 
(I didn’t cry; I played at slipping round the world, and getting to
New Zealand with my head upside down on the ground.)
The reason the saddle is slippery is not because it’s smooth,
for it’s rather rough; and there’s a hard ridge behind,
And the horse’s hair coming through the donkey’s back (I mean through
his saddle) scratches you
dreadfully; but I tuck my things under me, and pretend I don’t mind. 
They work out again though, particularly when they are starched, and
I think frocks get shorter every time they go to the wash;
But I don’t complain; if it’s very uncomfortable, I make an ugly face
to myself, and say, “Bosh!”
We’ve all of us had a good deal of practice, so we ought to know
how to ride;
We’ve ridden a great deal since we came to live on the Heath, and we
rode a good deal when Father was stationed at the sea-side. 
My Major taught me to ride sideways, and at first he would hold me on;
But I don’t like being touched; and I don’t call it riding like a lady
if you’re held on by an officer, and I’d rather tumble off if
I can’t stick on by myself; so I sent him away, and the nasty
saddle slipped round directly he was gone. 
I only crushed my sun-bonnet, and the donkey stood quite still. (We
always call that one “the old stager.”)
I wasn’t frightened, except just the tiniest bit; but he says he was
dreadfully frightened.  So I said, “Then you ought to be
ashamed of yourself, considering all your medals, and that
you’re a Major.” 
He likes me very much, and I like him, and when my fifth birthday
comes, he says I’m to choose a donkey, and he’ll buy it for
me, but the saddle and bridle shall be quite new;
So I’ve made up my mind to choose the one Brother Bill had for his
charger at Mother’s Birthday Review;
And Maggie is so glad, she says her life is quite miserable with
thinking how miserable other lives are, if only we knew. 
Maggie loves every creature that lives; she won’t confess to black
beetles, but she can’t stamp on them (I’ve stamped out lots
in my winter boots), and she doesn’t even think a donkey
ugly when he brays;
And she says she shall buy a brush, out of her pocket-money, and brush
my donkey every day till he looks like a horse, and that it
shan’t be her fault if there isn’t one poor old brute beast
who lives happily to the end of his days.

JACK ASS.