"Can't say as I like top–buggies," said Rick; "they don't balance good."
"Suit me to a ha'ar," said Marcus Aurelius Antoninus. "Top–buggy means the baby's in behind, an' I kin stop while she gathers the pretty flowers—yes, an' pick a maouthful, too. The women–folk all say I hev to be humoured, an' I don't kerry things to the sweatin'–point."
"'Course I've no prejudice against a top–buggy s' long's I can see it," Tedda went on quickly. "It's ha'f–seein' the pesky thing bobbin' an' balancn' behind the winkers gits on my nerves. Then the boss looked at the bit they'd sold with me, an' s' he: 'Jiminy Christmas! This 'u'd make a clothes–horse Stan' 'n end!' Then he gave me a plain bar bit, an' fitted it's if there was some feelin' to my maouth."
"Hain't ye got any, Miss Tedda?" said Tuck, who has a mouth like velvet, and knows it.
"Might 'a' had, Miss Tuck, but I've forgot. Then he give me an open bridle,—my style's an open bridle—an'—I dunno as I ought to tell this by rights—he—give—me—a kiss."
"My!" said Tuck, "I can't tell fer the shoes o' me what makes some men so fresh."
"Pshaw, sis," said Nip, "what's the sense in actin' so? You git a kiss reg'lar's hitchin'–up time."
"Well, you needn't tell, smarty," said Tuck, with a squeal and a kick.
"I'd heard o' kisses, o' course," Tedda went on, "but they hadn't come my way specially. I don't mind tellin' I was that took aback at that man's doin's he might ha' lit fire–crackers on my saddle. Then we went out jest's if a kiss was nothin', an' I wasn't three strides into my gait 'fore I felt the boss knoo his business, an' was trustin' me. So I studied to please him, an' he never took the whip from the dash—a whip drives me plumb distracted—an' the upshot was that—waal, I've come up the Back Pasture to–day, an' the coupe's tipped clear over twice, an' I've waited till 'twuz fixed each time. You kin judge for yourselves. I don't set up to be no better than my neighbours,—specially with my tail snipped off the way 'tis,—but I want you all to know Tedda's quit fightin' in harness or out of it, 'cep' when there's a born fool in the pasture, stuffin' his stummick with board that ain't rightly hisn, 'cause he hain't earned it."
"Meanin' me, madam?" said the yellow horse.
"Ef the shoe fits, clinch it," said Tedda, snorting. "I named no names, though, to be sure, some folks are mean enough an' greedy enough to do 'thout 'em."
"There's a deal to be forgiven to ignorance," said the yellow horse, with an ugly look in his blue eye.
"Seemin'ly, yes; or some folks 'u'd ha' been kicked raound the pasture 'bout onct a minute sence they came—board er no board."
"But what you do not understand, if you will excuse me, madam, is that the whole principle o' servitood, which includes keep an' feed, starts from a radically false basis; an' I am proud to say that me an' the majority o' the horses o' Kansas think the entire concern should be relegated to the limbo of exploded superstitions. I say we're too progressive for that. I say we're too enlightened for that. 'Twas good enough's long's we didn't think, but naow—but naow—a new loominary has arisen on the horizon!"
"Meanin' you?" said the Deacon.
"The horses o' Kansas are behind me with their multitoodinous thunderin' hooves, an' we say, simply but grandly, that we take our stand with all four feet on the inalienable rights of the horse, pure and simple,—the high–toned child o' nature, fed by the same wavin' grass, cooled by the same ripplin' brook—yes, an' warmed by the same gen'rous sun as falls impartially on the outside an' the inside of the pampered machine o' the trottin'–track, or the bloated coupe–horses o' these yere Eastern cities. Are we not the same flesh an' blood?"
"Not by a bushel an' a half," said the Deacon, under his breath. "Grandee never was in Kansas."
"My! Ain't that elegant, though, abaout the wavin' grass an' the ripplin' brooks?" Tuck whispered in Nip's ear. "The gentleman's real convincin' I think."
"I say we are the same flesh an' blood! Are we to be separated, horse from horse, by the artificial barriers of a trottin'–record, or are we to look down upon each other on the strength o' the gifts o' nature—an extry inch below the knee, or slightly more powerful quarters? What's the use o' them advantages to you? Man the Oppressor comes along, an' sees you're likely an' good–lookin', an' grinds you to the face o' the earth. What for? For his own pleasure: for his own convenience! Young an' old, black an' bay, white an' grey, there's no distinctions made between us. We're ground up together under the remorseless teeth o' the engines of oppression!"
"Guess his breechin' must ha' broke goin' daown–hill," said the Deacon. "Slippery road, maybe, an' the buggy come onter him, an' he didn't know 'nough to hold back. That don't feel like teeth, though. Maybe he busted a shaft, an' it pricked him."
"An' I come to you from Kansas, wavin' the tail o' friendship to all an' sundry, an' in the name of the uncounted millions o' pure–minded, high–toned horses now strugglin' towards the light o' freedom, I say to you, Rub noses with us in our sacred an' holy cause. The power is yourn. Without you, I say, Man the Oppressor cannot move himself from place to place. Without you he cannot reap, he cannot sow, he cannot plough."
"Mighty odd place, Kansas!" said Marcus Aurelius Antoninus. "Seemin'ly they reap in the spring an' plough in the fall. 'Guess it's right fer them, but 'twould make me kinder giddy."
"The produc's of your untirin' industry would rot on the ground if you did not weakly consent to help him. Let 'em rot, I say! Let him call you to the stables in vain an' nevermore! Let him shake his ensnarin' oats under your nose in vain! Let the Brahmas roost in the buggy, an' the rats run riot round the reaper! Let him walk on his two hind feet till they blame well drop off! Win no more soul–destroyn' races for his pleasure! Then, an' not till then, will Man the Oppressor know where he's at. Quit workin', fellow–sufferers an' slaves! Kick! Rear! Plunge! Lie down on the shafts, an' woller! Smash an' destroy! The conflict will be but short, an' the victory is certain. After that we can press our inalienable rights to eight quarts o' oats a day, two good blankets, an' a fly–net an' the best o' stablin'."
The yellow horse shut his yellow teeth with a triumphant snap; and Tuck said, with a sigh: "Seems's if somethin' ought to be done. Don't seem right, somehow,—oppressin' us an all,—to my way o' thinkin'."
Said Muldoon, in a far–away and sleepy voice:
"Who in Vermont's goin' to haul de inalienable oats? Dey weigh like Sam Hill, an' sixty bushel at dat allowance ain't goin' to last t'ree weeks here. An' dere's de winter hay for five mont's!"
"We can settle those minor details when the great cause is won," said the yellow horse. "Let us return simply but grandly to our inalienable rights—the right o' freedom on these yere verdant hills, an' no invijjus distinctions o' track an' pedigree:"
"What in stables 'jer call an invijjus distinction?" said the Deacon, stiffly.
"Fer one thing, bein' a bloated, pampered trotter jest because you happen to be raised that way, an' couldn't no more help trottin' than eatin'."
"Do ye know anythin' about trotters?" said the Deacon.
"I've seen 'em trot. That was enough for me. I don't want to know any more. Trottin''s immoral."
"Waal, I'll tell you this much. They don't bloat, an' they don't pamp—much. I don't hold out to be no trotter myself, though I am free to say I had hopes that way—onct. But I do say, fer I've seen 'em trained, that a trotter don't trot with his feet: he trots with his head; an' he does more work—ef you know what that is—in a week than you er your sire ever done in all your lives. He's everlastingly at it, a trotter is; an' when he isn't, he's studyin' haow. You seen 'em trot? Much you hev! You was hitched to a rail, back o' the stand, in a buckboard with a soap–box nailed on the slats, an' a frowzy buff'lo atop, while your man peddled rum fer lemonade to little boys as thought they was actin' manly, till you was both run off the track an' jailed—you intoed, shufflin', sway–backed, wind–suckin' skate, you!"