134 OCCASIONAL HAPPY THOUGHTS. 



My man, Murgle, the Groom-Gardener (which sounds 

 something about as uncertain as a horse-marine), makes a 

 great fuss with preparations. I hear him "way-ing" and 

 "woa-ing" and " come-overing," and pishing and blowing, 

 until, finding he is a long time, I enter the stable, and see 

 him having a fight with the cob, which objects to the collar 

 being put over its head. 



Murgle is going at the animal, as if harnessing him were 

 a labour for Hercules. 



The horse won't have the collar put on in Murgle's way, 

 and Murgle, perspiring, won't give in. 



He has got the collar as far as the cob's eyes, where it 

 sticks, and makes the poor creature wild. 



Murgle has got all the rest of the harness on first, and the 

 cob seems to me to show ominous signs of impatience about 

 the tail. 



" Can't you manage it ?" -I ask Murgle. I know / can't 

 help him. 



"Ar'll do it afore arve done with him," says Murgle, with 

 cheerful determination. 



It is now a contest. The Horse won't give in, nor will 

 Murgle. I am on the point of saying, "Well, it's no good 

 keeping a horse that you can't harness under an hour and a 

 half," — by which I really mean " it's no good keeping a man 

 who knows nothing about horses," — when the stable-yard 

 gate opens, and a small, thick-set, shambling man, in an 

 ostler's dress, enters. He has come from Jarvis's. He sets 

 matters right in a second. He is only two-thirds of Murgle's 

 height, but he manages the cob's head perfectly. The collar 



