It was with great difficulty that this was accomplished, for the old horse had evidently seen a vision of the happy hunting-ground, and was loath to return to the sordid earth.  His limbs were already stiffening in death, and the whites of his eyes only were visible.  Mrs. Wiggs noted these discouraging symptoms, and saw that violent measures were necessary.

“Gether some sticks an’ build a fire quick as you kin.  I ’ve got to run over home.  Build it right up clost to him, Billy; we ’ve got to git him het up.”

She rushed into the kitchen, and, taking several cakes of tallow from the shelf, threw them into a tin bucket.  Then she hesitated for a moment.  The kettle of soup was steaming away on the stove ready for supper.  Mrs. Wiggs did not believe in sacrificing the present need to the future comfort.  She threw in a liberal portion of pepper, and, seizing the kettle in one hand and the bucket of tallow in the other, staggered back to the bonfire.

“Now, Billy,” she commanded, “put this bucket of tallow down there in the hottest part of the fire.  Look out; don’t tip it—­there!  Now, you come here an’ help me pour this soup into the bottle.  I’m goin’ to git that ole hoss so het up he’ll think he’s havin’ a sunstroke!  Seems sorter bad to keep on pestering him when he’s so near gone, but this here soup’ll feel good when it once gits inside him.”

When the kettle was empty, the soup was impartially distributed over Mrs. Wiggs and the patient, but a goodly amount had “got inside,” and already the horse was losing his rigidity.

Only once did Billy pause in his work, and that was to ask: 

“Ma, what do you think I’d better name him?”

Giving names was one of Mrs. Wiggs’s chief accomplishments, and usually required much thoughtful consideration; but in this case if there was to be a christening it must be at once.

“I’d like a jography name,” suggested Billy, feeling that nothing was too good to bestow upon his treasure.

Mrs. Wiggs stood with the soup dripping from her hands, and earnestly contemplated the horse.  Babies, pigs, goats, and puppies had drawn largely on her supply of late, and geography names especially were scarce.  Suddenly a thought struck her.

“I’ll tell you what, Billy!  We’ll call him Cuby!  It’s a town I heared ’em talkin’ ’bout at the grocery.”

By this time the tallow was melted, and Mrs. Wiggs carried it over by the horse, and put each of his hoofs into the hot liquid, while Billy rubbed the legs with all the strength of his young arms.

“That’s right,” she said; “now you run home an’ git that piece of carpet by my bed, an’ we’ll kiver him up.  I am goin’ to git them fence rails over yonder to keep the fire goin’.”

Through the long night they worked with their patient, and when the first glow of morning appeared in the east, a triumphant procession wended its way across the Cabbage Patch.  First came an old woman, bearing sundry pails, kettles, and bottles; next came a very sleepy little boy, leading a trembling old horse, with soup all over its head, tallow on its feet, and a strip of rag-carpet tied about its middle.