well as the dogs, and every other dog in the neighbourhood. Not that she
had any brumby element in her--she would have been easier to yard if she
had--but she would drive steadily enough, alone or with other horses,
until she saw the yard, when she would turn and deliberately walk away.
If we walked to head her she beat us by half a length; if we ran she ran,
and stopped when we stopped. That was the aggravating part of her! When
it was only to go to the store or the post-office that we wanted her, we
could have walked there and back a dozen times before we could run her
down; but, somehow, we generally preferred to work hard catching her
rather than walk.

When we had spent half the day hunting for the curry-comb, which we
did n't find, Dad began to rub Bess down with a corn-cob--a shelled
one--and trim her up a bit. He pulled her tail and cut the hair off her
heels with a knife; then he gave her some corn to eat, and told Joe he was
to have a bundle of thistles cut for her every night. Now and again,
while grooming her, Dad would step back a few paces and look upon her
with pride.

"There's great breeding in the old mare," he would say, "great breeding;
look at the shoulder on her, and the loin she has; and where did ever you
see a horse with the same nostril? Believe me, she'll surprise a few
of them!"

We began to regard Bess with profound respect; hitherto we had been
accustomed to pelt her with potatoes and blue-metal.

The only thing likely to prejudice her chance in the race, Dad reckoned,
was a small sore on her back about the size of a foal's foot. She had had
that sore for upwards of ten years to our knowledge, but Dad hoped to have