Oe The Naturalist in La Plata. 
sustains us; but a something with life and thought, 
hike ourselves, that feels what we feel, understands 
us, and keenly participates in our pleasures. Take, 
for example, the horse on which some quiet old 
country gentleman is accustomed to travel; how 
soberly and evenly he jogs along, picking his way 
over the ground. But let him fall into the hands 
of a lively youngster, and how soon he picks up a 
frisky spirit! Were horses less plastic, more the 
creatures of custom than they are, 1t would always 
be necessary, before buying one, to inguire into the 
disposition of its owner. 
When I was thirteen years old I was smitten 
with love for a horse I once saw—an untamable- 
looking brute, that rolled his eyes, turbulently, 
under a cloud of black mane tumbling over his 
forehead. I could not take my sight off this proud, 
beautiful creature, and I longed to possess him 
with a great longing. His owner—a worthless 
vagabond, as it happened—marked my enthusiastic 
admiration, and a day or two afterwards, having 
lost all his money at cards, he came to me, offering 
to sell me the horse. Having obtained my father’s 
consent, [ rushed off to the man with all the money 
I possessed—about thirty or thirty-five shillings, I 
believe. After some grumbling, and finding he 
could get no more, he accepted the money. My 
new possession filled me with unbounded delight, 
and I spent the time caressing him and leading him 
about the grounds in search of succulent grasses 
and choice leaves to feed him on. I am sure this 
horse understood and loved me, for, in spite of 
that savage look, which his eyes never quite lost, 
