The fact is that, excepting barnyard fowls, the horse is the most idiotic of all animals, and, pound for pound, even the miserable hen is his intellectual superior.  Indeed, if horses had brains no better than those of hens, but proportionately larger, they would not be drawing wagons, and carrying men upon their backs, but would be lecturing to women’s clubs, and holding chairs in universities, and writing essays on the Development of the Short Story in America.

Horse lovers, who are among the most prejudiced of all prejudiced people, and who regard horses with an amiable but fatuous admiration such as young parents have for their babies, will try to tell you that these great creatures which they love are not mentally deficient.  Ask them why the horse, with his superior strength, submits to man, and they will tell you that the horse’s eye magnifies, and that, to the horse, man consequently appears to be two or three times his actual size.

Nonsense!  There is but one reason for the yielding of the horse:  he is an utter fool.

Everything proves him a fool.  He will charge into battle, he will walk cheerfully beside a precipice, he will break his back pulling a heavy wagon, or break his leg or his neck in jumping a hurdle; yet he will go into a frenzy of fright at the sight of a running child, a roadside rock, or the shadow of a branch across the path, and not even a German chancellor could shy as he will at a scrap of paper.

As I passed in front of Dr. Bell he rolled his eyes at me horribly, and rose upon his hind legs, almost upsetting the groom as he went up and barely missing him with his fore feet as he brought them to earth again.

“What’s the matter with him?” I asked, stopping.

“I guess he just feels good,” said the Efficient Sister.

“Yassuh, tha ‘s all,” said the groom cheerfully. “He’s aw’ right.  Gentle ath a lamb.”

As he made this statement, I took another step in the direction of the horse, whereat he reared again.

“Well, now!” said the groom, patting Dr. Bell upon the neck.  “Feelin’ pretty good ‘s mawnin’, is you?  There, there!”

Dr. Bell, however, paid little attention to his attendant, but gazed steadily at me with an evil look.

“Does he always do like that?” I asked the Domestic Sister.

“I never saw him do it before,” she said.

“Maybe he doesn’t admire the cut of your riding breeches,” suggested my companion.

“Oh, no, suh,” protested the groom.  “It ‘s jes’ his li’l way tryin’ t’ tell you he likes de ladies t’ ride him better ’n he likes de gemmen.”

“He means he doesn’t want me to ride him?”

“Yassuh, da ‘s jes’ his li’l idee ’t he ’s got now.  He be all right once you in de saddle.”

“But how am I to get in the saddle if he keeps doing that?”

“I hold ‘im all right,” said the groom.  “You jes’ get on ’im, suh.  He soon find out who ’s boss.”