the word, and we were up with him in a second.

"Sawyer," he cried in a stern voice, "is that pony made of flesh and
blood?"

"Flesh and blood and temper," he said; "he's too fond of his own will,
and that won't suit me." He spoke as if he was in a strong passion. He
was a builder who had often been to the park on business.

"And do you think," said master sternly, "that treatment like this will
make him fond of your will?"

"He had no business to make that turn; his road was straight on!" said
the man roughly.

"You have often driven that pony up to my place," said master; "it only
shows the creature's memory and intelligence; how did he know that you
were not going there again? But that has little to do with it. I must
say, Mr. Sawyer, that a more unmanly, brutal treatment of a little
pony it was never my painful lot to witness, and by giving way to such
passion you injure your own character as much, nay more, than you injure
your horse; and remember, we shall all have to be judged according to
our works, whether they be toward man or toward beast."

Master rode me home slowly, and I could tell by his voice how the thing
had grieved him. He was just as free to speak to gentlemen of his own
rank as to those below him; for another day, when we were out, we met
a Captain Langley, a friend of our master's; he was driving a splendid
pair of grays in a kind of break. After a little conversation the
captain said: