KIT, THE TALE OF A MULE. 
FRANK 5S. ELLSWORTH. 
Without a doubt she was the worst mule 
I ever saw. Of course, Jack, having 
passed 10 long years in harness, was full 
of sense; but Kit, his worser half, was 
younger and more ambitious in her mulish 
way. A lady mule can not be ambitious 
and retain the respect of her betters. The 
couple was childless, and, as is sometimes 
the case with childless couples, they quar- 
reled. Kit was unquestionably the corporal 
When Jack would ask 
of their rancho. 
A MURDEROUS GLEAM IN HER EYE. 
permission to go to lodge, or to go out with 
the boys, Kit would curse like a pirate, 
kick him a time or 2 in the ribs, and effec- 
tually prevent his going out that night or 
for several nights thereafter. 
Living for months in close proximity to 
Kit and Jack, I learned a great deal about 
both of them. A natural taste for lan- 
guages enabled me to master the rudiments 
of mule grammar and language, thus get- 
ting an insight into mule thoughts and 
character denied my less fortunate com- 
panions. Later researches have convinced 
me that the mule language is a derivative 
of that of the asses, with a considerable 
admixture of words from the horse tongue. 
The mules have brought a few words in 
pristine purity from their original home 
beyond the Caspian, whence they emigrated 

with that branch of the Aryans which en- 
tered Europe near where Constantinople 
now stands. The most ancient word of 
the pure mule tongue which now occurs to 
me is “Yaw-he-haw,” meaning “oats ;” con- 
clusively proving that the Indo-Aryan 
tribes were farmers and raised the grain 
mentioned. However, it is not of mule 
philology and history that I wish to speak 
at this time. Rather of certain unladylike 
traits which Kit exhibited when on the 
desert, many leagues from home. 
I was not with Kit and Jack during the 
day, and I heard little of their conversation 
when they were at work; but when lying 
on my cot in the evening I have often over- 
heard their complaints, little caresses, and 
schemes. Together, but at her instigation, 
they had several times taken jaunts during 
the night, with no intention of returning in 
the morning, until Dick, the teamster, al- 
most as a last resort, had hobbled them. 
Late one afternoon we camped on the 
bank of El Chicon, a large water hole 
Southwest of Uvalde. That night, as the 
mules were being fed, I heard Kit remark: 
“You divide the corn to-night, Jack dear, 
and don’t forget I want to see you a few 
minutes after the moon sets.” 
About 3 hours later, as the teamster, 
topographer and rodmen were playing their 
everlasting euchre, Kit, who was standing 
ae my cot, was whispering to her better 
alf. 
“Jack,” she said, in an earnest tone, “I 
was frightfully abused by that teamster to- 
day, and I feel terribly cut up about it. 
Feel those long ridges just in front of my 
left hip.” 
He felt of them, and asked, “Well, what 
are you going to do about it?” 
“What am I going to do about it? You 
heartless brute! I shall leaye this place 
to-night and you must go with me. I 
heard the chief, that fellow with the black 
beard, tell Dick to-day that in less than a 
week we will be on rough roads again. If 
you think I intend to get my back and 
collar-bones all spotted with sores again, 
you are a mistaken mule!” 
“But, Kit,” Jack interrupted, “we were 
all through Burnet, Llano, and Mason 
counties last year, on the roughest roads 
either of us ever saw, and we both re- 
covered.” 
“There you go! Always satisfied! Never 
trying to push ahead unless Dick is after 
you with that blacksnake whip! I don’t 
believe you would leave a sure ear of corn 
for the possible chance of everlasting free- 
