CART HORSES. 211 
region in the northwestern part of Massachusetts, 
who had a large, gayly painted wagon, drawn by four 
stout, handsome gray horses, in which he took a 
proper pride; but one night the whole establishment 
perished in the flames, the stable where the pedler 
put up having taken fire, and the team was never 
reproduced. 
Between the cart horse and his driver there usu- 
ally exists, in one respect at least, the ideal relation, 
that is, the driver serves also as groom. Man and 
horse labor together, and when the day’s work is 
done it is the driver who gives the hungry and tired 
beast his supper, his bed, and perchance his rubbing 
down. Thus the horse associates with the man the 
pleasures as well as the toils of equine life. I con- 
fess that often, vexed by legal problems, I have looked 
out of my office window and envied the teamsters in 
the street. To be in charge of a good, sleek, fat pair 
of cart horses, to live in the open air, to digest any- 
thing that you may see fit to impose upon your stom- 
ach, to have a face beautifully colored by the elements 
and by whiskey, thoroughly assimilated, —is not this 
to be happy? There is a certain negro teamster, 
who, as it appears to me, stands at the acme of un- 
intellectual existence. He drives a very fine pair 
of jet-black horses, belonging to a coal merchant. 
These horses have taken many premiums at horse 
shows, and they bear the appropriate names of King 
Cole and Chloe. Evidently the negro is wrapped up 
in them. Once or twice, at least, every year, he ex- 
hibits the animals at a show or fair, and on these 
occasions he has nothing to do except to talk; and I 
know of no machine that runs more easily and pleas- 
