When he
does this my friend bends forward and clutches him round the neck
tightly. I think he is trying to whisper in the horse's ear and
beg him in Heaven's name to forbear; but what he looks like is
Santa Claus with a clean shave, sitting on the combing of a very
steep house with his feet hanging over the eaves, peeking down the
chimney to see if the children are asleep yet. When that horse
dies he will still have finger marks on his throat and the
authorities will suspect foul play probably.
Once I tried it myself. I was induced to scale the heights of a
horse that was built somewhat along the general idea of the Andes
Mountains, only more rugged and steeper nearing the crest. From
the ground he looked to be not more than sixteen hands high, but
as soon as I was up on top of him I immediately discerned that it
was not sixteen hands--it was sixteen miles. What I had taken for
the horse's blaze face was a snow-capped peak. Miss Anna Peck
might have felt at home up there, because she has had the experience
and is used to that sort of thing, but I am no mountain climber
myself.
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