A FAITHFUL FRIEND,
WHO DIED AT THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE.


A rear view of Job still showed him a fine-looking horse, for his
delicate skin, slightly dappled here and there, his long, thick
tail and proudly arching neck plainly betokened his aristocracy.
But unfortunately, reckless driving in his youth had bent his fore
legs to a decided angle, and turned in his toes in an absurdly
deprecating fashion, until Mrs. Adams declared that she would put
a skirt on him to cover these defects, unless people stopped
turning to look after him and laugh.

But it was when he was in motion that Job exhibited his
peculiarities to the best advantage. His ordinary gait was a slow,
dignified walk, varied, at times, by a trot of which the direction
was of the up-and-down species, and made his progress even slower
than usual. But now and then the old fellow would seem to be
inspired with a little of his former spirit, and, after a skittish
little kick, he would straighten his body with a suddenness which
brought Mrs. Adams to her feet, and rush off at a mad pace that
soon faltered and failed, when the old brown head would turn, and
the gentle eyes seem to say pleadingly,--

"I did try, but I can't."

In reality, the cause of Job's slowness lay, not so much in his
age as in his afflicted knees; and they kept his driver in a
constant state of anxiety as to which pair would give out next.
Now his hind legs would suddenly fail him, and he would apparently