When I was a little boy, six or seven years old, my father had two white horses, named Billy and Tom. Billy had one black foot, and a little dark spot on his face; but Tom did not have a black hair on his whole body.

Billy was the old family horse, kind, gentle, and loving. Anybody could catch him, or lead him, or drive him. He liked to be petted, and in return seemed to take pride in being kind to all in the family.

Tom was a good horse too; but we had not owned him so long, and he did not care much to have any one pet him.

Billy was a little lame; and though he worked everywhere on the farm, and in drawing loads on the road, yet he was generally excused from going with the carriage, except when it was necessary for some of us children to drive.

One day my father went to the village with Tom, leaving Billy at home alone, in a field near the house. He missed his old friend Tom. They had worked together so much, that they had become great friends; and either one was very lonesome without the other.

Billy ran about here and there, neighing loudly whenever another horse appeared in sight upon the road, hoping that it might be his friend Tom coming back.

At last I went out to comfort him. I patted his head and his neck, and leading him by the mane to the fence, climbed first upon the fence, and then upon his back.

He seemed pleased, and started in a gentle walk along the farm-road leading down into the field, away from the house. When he had gone as far as I wished to ride, I called out, "Whoa!"

But he was a wise old horse. Instead of stopping in the middle of the road, where he then was, he turned out at one side, and stopped close by the fence, for me to get off upon that; as much as to say, "A boy that is not large enough to get upon my back without climbing a fence, is not large enough to climb from my back to the ground."