118 
THE AM ERI CAN-SCAN DIN A VIA N R EVIE W 
der together out of the same crib. They required stimulants, the two 
of them. 
To return to that particular Sunday—we were standing at the 
church keeping an impatient lookout across the parish. Peter Lo was 
bound for the house of worship, driving none other than Skobelef 
himself. 
The long line of vehicles came rolling in from the valleys. It 
picked up reinforcements at every crossroad until it was like a regular 
bridal procession. That day we kept our eyes on the horses and esti¬ 
mated the people in the gigs according to their dumb, driven cattle. A 
whole fated universe passed in review, animals fat and lean, jaded and 
fiery, old big-bellied nags with long necks and prominent backbones 
and heads sagging with each step toward the ground under the burden 
of unceasing tribulation; prosperous-looking brutes that gave mani¬ 
fest proof of good crops and bank deposits. Look at that brood-mare; 
she lias weaned many a colt and therefore carries her head high and 
surveys the world with maternal eyes. Here and there you can pick 
out fjord ponies with ragged haunches, stamping against the grade 
and sweating with the weight of the heavy gig, some of them so small 
that they make you think of mice. There comes a big old bay with 
huge watery eyes and quivering knees, looking about as if to ask why 
there is no Sabbath for the likes of him. Don’t miss the physiognomies 
of those virtuous, censorious fillies proclaiming the vanity of vanities, 
and just behind them wild young gallants neighing at the world in 
general. Have a look at that bay gelding. Why is his belly all spat¬ 
tered with mud ? That’s easy. 11 ^ is f i om a mou ta* , 
morning he had to wade through heath and marsh, across brooks and 
rivers on the way to the parish below, where his master could borrow 
a cart. He has another tough time coming before he gets back home. 
Talk about long processions! But what has become of Peter Lo? 
Where is Skobelef ? 
At last, there someone conies driving behind all the others. He is 
still far away beyond the farmhouses. Never mind, he is gaining 
ground at a pretty smart pace. Hundreds of eyes are fixed in rapt 
attention. 
The church bells rang out. Most of the horses had been unhitched 
and were tied to the big ash trees; there they stood with their heads 
buried in bags of hay, grinding at their dinners and gazing absently 
about. All of a sudden they jerked their heads up, and even the most 
raw-boned skates made shift to arch their necks as they stared down 
the road. 
Enter Peter Lo. Enter Skobelef. 
He came trotting along before the gig, a broad black hulk, his fet¬ 
locks dancing, his mane sweeping in billows down his neck, his eyes 
shooting fire, two red prize ribbons waving at his ears. He raised his 
