become our friends. At present there are but few men worthy of their
friendship. What else is a man's admiration, when it is without love
or respect or justice, but a bitter form of despite! It is small
wonder there should be so many stupid horses, when they receive so
little education, have such bad associates, and die so much too young
to have gained any ripe experience to transmit to their
posterity. Where would humanity be now, if we all went before
five-and-twenty?"

"I think you must be right. I have myself in my possession at this
moment, given me by one who loved her, an ink-stand made from the hoof
of a pony that died at the age of at least forty-two, and did her part
of the work of a pair till within a year or two of her death.--Poor
little Zephyr!"

"Why, Mr. Gowrie, you talk of her as if she were a Christian!"
exclaimed Mr. Skymer.

"That's how you talked of Memnon a moment ago! Where is the
difference? Not in the size, though Memnon would make three of
Zephyr!"

"I didn't say _poor Memnon_, did I? You said _poor Zephyr_! That is
the way Christians talk about their friends gone home to the grand old
family mansion! Why they do, they would hardly like one to tell them!"

"It is true," I responded. "I understand you now! I don't think I ever
heard a widow speak of her departed husband without putting _poor_, or
_poor dear_, before his name.--By the way, when you hear a woman speak
of her _late_ husband, can you help thinking her ready to marry