"Don' jes' like this kind uv a hoss," said D'ri. "Got t' keep
whalin' 'im all the while, an' he 's apt t' slobber 'n rough goin'."

He looked thoughtfully at the sun a breath, and then trimmed his
remark with these words; "Ain't eggzac'Iy sure-footed, nuther."

"Don't require much feed, though," I suggested.

"No; ye hev t' dew all the eatin', but ye can alwus eat 'nough fer
both."

It was a fine day, and a ride to remember. We had a warm sun, a
clear sky, and now and then we could feel the soft feet of the
south wind romping over us in the river way. Here and there a
swallow came coasting to the ripples, sprinkling the holy water of
delight upon us, or a crow's shadow ploughed silently across our
bows. It thrilled me to go cantering beside the noisy Rapides du
Plats or the wild-footed Galloup, two troops of water hurrying to
the mighty battles of the sea. We mounted reeling knolls, and
coasted over whirling dips, and rushed to boiling levels, and
jumped foamy ridges, and went galloping in the rush and tumble of
long slopes.

"Let 'er rip!" I could hear D'ri shouting, once in a while, as he
flashed up ahead of me. "Let 'er rip! Consarn 'er pictur'!"

He gave a great yell of triumph as we slowed in a long stretch of
still, broad water. "Judas Priest!" said he, as I came alongside,
"thet air's rougher 'n the bog trail."