turr'ble this weather. I'd 'a' come sooner, but they didn't know
what they wanted - ner haow. Fell out twice, both of 'em. I don't
understand sech foolishness."

"You look consider'ble het up. 'Guess you'd better cramp her under
them pines, an' cool off a piece."

Tedda scrambled on the ledge, and cramped the coupe in the shade of
a tiny little wood of pines, while my companion and I lay down
among the brown, silky needles, and gasped. All the home horses
were gathered round us, enjoying their Sunday leisure.

There were Rod and Rick, the seniors on the farm. They were the
regular road-pair, bay with black points, full brothers, aged, sons
of a Hambletonian sire and a Morgan dam. There were Nip and Tuck,
seal-browns, rising six, brother and sister, Black Hawks by birth,
perfectly matched, just finishing their education, and as handsome
a pair as man could wish to find in a forty-mile drive. There was
Muldoon, our ex-car-horse, bought at a venture, and any colour you
choose that is not white; and Tweezy, who comes from Kentucky, with
an affliction of his left hip, which makes him a little uncertain
how his hind legs are moving. He and Muldoon had been hauling
gravel all the week for our new road. The Deacon you know already.
Last of all, and eating something, was our faithful Marcus Aurelius
Antoninus, the black buggy-horse, who had seen us through every
state of weather and road, the horse who was always standing in
harness before some door or other - a philosopher with the appetite
of a shark and the manners of an archbishop. Tedda Gabler was a
new "trade," with a reputation for vice which was really the result
of bad driving. She had one working gait, which she could hold