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poising calculation is the perfectness of 

 practice joined to natural aptitude. Wag- 

 oners, like poets, are born, not made. Jim 

 was in the saddle, master of whip and rein, 

 long before his bare toes could reach a stir- 

 rup's length. Not under compulsion, either. 

 He loves the work it is in the blood. His 

 white-headed great-grandfather toothless, 

 tottering delights still to tell to all who will 

 listen of long trips across sand and clay in 

 " ole Ferginey " highways, hauling ole mars- 

 ter's crops the hundred miles to tide-water. 

 His son drove head of the emigrant-train 

 across the Blue Ridge into this new land of 

 promise ; his grandson piloted the carriage 

 through peaceful, prosperous days. Though 

 Jim has been born to freedom, hereditary 

 traditions, inclinations, are not less strong. 

 He feels him, none the less, born into the 

 place of plantation wagoner would be half 

 heart-broken if another had his seat. 



His mules his by love, not possession 

 rarely know the touch of whip the long, 

 leathern snake writhing, coiling, snapping 

 almost with noise of pistol-shot, in, around, 

 over them. The sound of it is to them as 

 the noise of drum and trumpet to soldiers 

 on parade. Its quaverings, flourishes, mean 

 to them, Go ! Halt ! Trot ! Steady ! Hold 



