Gray's pony, father?"
"What do you think of it?" said my father.
"Oh, it's a little dear," was my emphatic answer, and as the pony
unmistakably turned his head to me, I met his friendly advances by
going up to him, and in another moment my arms were round his neck,
and he was rubbing his soft, strong nose against my shoulder, and we
were kissing and fondling each other in happy forgetfulness of
everything but our sudden friendship, whilst the man-servant
(apparently an Irishman) was firing off ejaculations like crackers on
the fifth of November.
"Sure, now, did ever anyone see the like--just to look at the
baste--sure he knows it's the young squire himself entirely. Och, but
the young gintleman's as well acquainted with horses as myself--sure
he'd make friends with a unicorn, if there was such an animal; and
it's the unicorn that would be proud to let him, too!"
"It has been used to boys, I think?" said my father.
"Ye may say that, yer honour. It likes boys better than man, woman, or
child, and it's not every baste ye can say that for."
"A good many beasts have reason to think very differently, I fear,"
said my father.
"And _that's_ as true a word as your honour ever spoke," assented the
groom.
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