His diversion rather than his profit was the care and rental of about
twenty small houses, some of which he built to fit his pensioners. My
brother and myself often made the rounds with him in the phaeton. At most
of the houses he was affectionately greeted as "Jedge" and was held in long
conversations across the fence. And to see an Irishman was to see a friend.
They all knew him and said, "Good mornin'," as we passed. He and they were
good Democrats together.

I can see in memory a certain old Irishman in a red flannel shirt, with his
foot upon the hub, bending across the wheel and gesticulating in an endless
discussion of politics or crops, while my brother and I were impatient to
be off. Dolly was of course patient, for she had long since passed her
fretful youth. If by any biological chance it had happened that she had
been an old lady instead of a horse, she would have been the kind that
spent her day in a rocker with her knitting. Any one who gave Dolly an
excuse for standing was her friend. There she stood as though she wished
the colloquy to last forever.

It was seldom that Dolly lost her restraint. She would, indeed, when she
came near the stable, somewhat hasten her stride; and when we came on our
drives to the turning point and at last headed about for home, Dolly would
know it and show her knowledge by a quickening of the ears and the quiver
of a faint excitement. Yet Dolly lost her patience when there were flies.
Then she threw off all repression and so waved her tail that she regularly
got it across the reins. This stirred my grandfather to something not
far short of anger. How vigorously would he try to dislodge the reins
by pulling and jerking! Dolly only clamped down her tail the harder.
Experience showed that the only way was to go slowly and craftily and
without heat or temper--a slackening of the reins--a distraction of Dolly's
attention--a leaning across the dashboard--a firm grasping of the tail out