It is perhaps needless and an insult to their intelligence for me to
say that they all know their own names as well as you know yours. They
know, too, their numbers when they are acting as soldiers formed in
line waiting orders; the Professor passes along and checking them off
with his forefinger numbers them, then falling back, calls out for
certain ones to form into platoons, and they make no mistake. Their
ears are alert, their senses sharp, their memory good. "Number Two,"
"Number Four," and so on, answer by advancing, as a soldier would
respond to the roll-call.

They came around from the stable an hour before the performance and
went up the stairs by which the audience went; and a crowd used to
gather every afternoon and evening to see that remarkable and free
feat.

[Illustration: PRINCE.]

When the curtain rose there was to be seen a small stage carpeted
ankle deep with saw-dust, where Professor Bartholomew purposed to have
his horses act; first the part of a school, then of a court room, last
a military drill and taking of a fort. They came in one after another,
pretending, if that is not too strong a word, that they were on the
way to school, and that was the playground; and there they played
together, with such soft, graceful action, such caressing ways, and
trippings as dainty as in "Pinafore," until at the ringing of a bell
they came at once to order from their mixed-up, mazy pastime, and
waited the arrival of their teacher, the Professor, who entered with a
schoolmaster air, and gave the order.