Somehow I was convinced that a bachelor owned it--a man
who made this house--which was much too large for him
--his "bunk." There it stood, slick and cold, unhospitable
as ever a house was. A house has its physiognomy as well
as a man, for him who can read it; and this one,
notwithstanding its new and shining paint, was sullen,
morose, and nearly vicious and spiteful. I turned away.
I should not have cared to work for its owner.

Peter was trotting along. I do not know why on this first
trip he never showed the one of his two most prominent
traits--his laziness. As I found out later on, so long
as I drove him single (he changed entirely in this respect
when he had a mate), he would have preferred to be hitched
behind, with me between the shafts pulling buggy and him.
That was his weakness, but in it there also lay his
strength. As soon as I started to dream or to be absorbed
in the things around, he was sure to fall into the slowest
of walks. When then he heard the swish of the whip, he
would start with the worst of consciences, gallop away
at breakneck speed, and slow down only when he was sure
the whip was safe in its socket. When we met a team and
pulled out on the side of the road, he would take it for
granted that I desired to make conversation. He stopped
instantly, drew one hindleg up, stood on three legs, and
drooped his head as if he had come from the ends of the
world. Oh yes, he knew how to spare himself. But on the
other hand, when it came to a tight place, where only an
extraordinary effort would do, I had never driven a horse
on which I could more confidently rely. What any horse