Standing at the kitchen door, all ready for the most timorous to drive, is the most important minister to the Home Amusements—the family horse. He is a beast of burden, no doubt. There is but little Arab steed left in him, if, indeed, there ever was much. He is a plodder, a patient, much put-upon beast. The boys can harness him, the girls can drive him. He is allowed to take out grandma—when she consents to be driven, and isn’t afraid of the railroad train, and does not think that it is going to rain. The baby, when he takes his first adventurous journey down the village street, is put in state and in blankets behind the family horse. No one is afraid of Blossom. No one likes to whip him, because if he were whipped, what antics he might give way to!

Blossom is an exceedingly inappropriate name. Dried Leaf would be far more descriptive. Still Blossom is adhered to, because the suggestion that he was once young, and that really he is frisky, in his silent way, is still a delightful legend in the family.

Blossom, who is an intelligent old beast, knows perfectly well how utterly weak and imbecile the whole family are about him. So he will never do anything but walk and trot very gently, because he knows that no one dares to whip him. Once a young cousin, who had none of the family reverence for Blossom, did give him a few cuts on his exceedingly smooth, fat sides. Blossom had the presence of mind to stand up on his hind legs, frightening mamma nearly to death; and she mentioned, in Blossom’s hearing, that “he never was to be whipped again, because he really had a great deal of fire in him, and would not brook whip or spur!”

“I remember, dear,” she says, “your father says that he heard, when he bought him, that he came of very proud stock.”

It has been noticed that when papa wishes to catch the train Blossom can go as fast as anybody.

Blossom is a great pet, and he has that instinct of a good family horse—he stops when anything is wrong. Once, when the harness broke, Blossom, instead of running, stopped short, and saved the lives of the whole family. He has a quick ear for a coming railway train, and never has balked going up hill. The girls feed him with sugar, and take their first ride on his dear, safe, hard old back. The boys have had imaginary jousts with neighboring knights, urging him in the lists. He has been put through all the sports of the middle ages, has Blossom, and probably he distrusts the institution of chivalry. Still, he likes the boys, and does all that a phlegmatic temperament and an indomitable laziness will allow in the way of a spirited and impulsive charge.

There are persons whom Blossom dislikes; one is the spinster sister, Miss Caroline, who drives him with many a whirrup, and “get up,” and “g’lang,” and has a nervous twitch to her hand, and a distrustful and uncertain temper with the whip. Miss Caroline nags Blossom, as she has nagged everything and everybody all her life, and Blossom resents her absence of repose and confidence by starting wildly to right and left as he goes down the village street, appearing to make for a distant fence when she is endeavoring to guide his nose toward the gate of the parsonage. Indeed, the village wit says that if he sees only the back of the family carriage he can tell that Miss Caroline is driving, as he watches that respected vehicle describing parabolas and angles as it wobbles down the street.

When mamma drives, Blossom goes in a slow, stately, but dignified manner, and, although he imposes upon her good-nature, and does not put forth any mile-in-three-minutes style, yet he shows a due respect for himself and her. When the girls drive him, he, feeling through the reins a little of the ichor of their young blood, becomes almost vivacious, and goes almost half as fast as he can go. When papa drives, he feels a strong hand behind him, and actually gets there.

Every family should have as many animals as possible. Dogs of every breed and variety—especially big ones, and good ones, like mastiffs and Newfoundlands, and a few little ones to play with. Cats and kittens, if they like them, rabbits, goats, pigeons, lambs, peacocks, etc., and as much live-stock as can be accommodated about the place should be there. These four-footed friends, especially dogs, are indispensable in the country. What attachments one forms for them! How dreary the hour when they die! Perhaps, then, we wish that they had not been so intimate, so dear, so loving, so trustful. The walk, the ramble, the quiet seat on the piazza—all, all must be endeared by the silent friendship of the dogs.

There is sometimes a want of harmony among the pets. Carlo must be shut up while Flirt is at large, and the parrot must be kept away from the pigeons. The parrot can take care of herself as to the cats; but how about the canaries and the blackcap? Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty, and the only safety of slavery.

And yet these enforced duties: do they not fit the boys for the cares of government? Do they not tell the future politician what he is to do? Are they not, after all, a part of that great education which Home, and only Home, can give us?

We shall have few friends so faithful as Blossom, few who will impose upon us so gently, and who will really impose upon us to our advantage. We shall have few such friends as Carlo and Flirt, who love us, faults and all; who never ask what wrong we have committed, or how unworthy we are, but who are, without doubt, the most flattering of worshipers, loving us simply because we are ourselves. How few love us for that, and that alone!