_From the painting by Maude Scrivener_]

The memory of horses is remarkable. The newsman of a country paper
was in the habit of riding his horse once or twice a week to the
houses of fifty or sixty of his customers, the horse invariably
stopping of his own accord at each house as he reached it.

But the memory of the horse was exhibited in a still more curious
manner. It happened that there were two persons on the route who
took one paper between them, and each claimed the privilege of
having it first on each alternate week. The horse soon became
accustomed to this regulation, and though the parties lived two
miles distant, he stopped once a fortnight at the door of the
half-customer at one place, and once a fortnight at the door of the
half-customer at the other; and never did he forget this
arrangement, which lasted for several years.

I was once travelling in the interior of Portugal with several
companions. My horse had never been in that part of the country
before. We left our inn at daybreak, and proceeded through a
mountainous district to visit some beautiful scenery. On our return
evening was approaching, when I stopped behind my companions to
tighten the girths of my saddle. Believing that there was only one
path to take, I rode slowly on, but shortly reached a spot where I
was in some doubt whether I should go forward or turn off to the
left. I shouted, but heard no voice in reply, nor could I see any
trace of my friends. Darkness was coming rapidly on. My horse
seeming inclined to take the left hand, I thought it best to let
him do so. In a short time the sky became overcast, and there was
no moon. The darkness was excessive. Still my steed stepped boldly