d out had great
powers of speed and endurance. He sold him to a speculator for a big
price, and it has set everybody wild. If the people who give all their
time to it can't raise fast horses I don't see how the farmers can. A
fast horse on a farm is ruination to the boys, for it starts them racing
and betting. Father says he is going to offer a prize for the fastest
walker that can be bred in New Hampshire. That Dutchman of ours, heavy
as he is, is a fair walker, and Cleve and Pacer can each walk four and a
half miles an hour."

"Why do you lay such stress on their walking fast?" asked Miss Laura.

"Because so much of the farm work must be done at a walk. Ploughing,
teaming, and drawing produce to market, and going up and down hills.
Even for the cities it is good to have fast walkers. Trotting on city
pavements is very hard on the dray horses. If they are allowed to go at
a quick walk, their legs will keep strong much longer. It is shameful
the way horses are used up in big cities. Our pavements are so bad that
cab horses are used up in three years. In many ways we are a great deal
better off in this new country than the people in Europe, but we are
not in respect of cab horses, for in London and Paris they last for
five years. I have seen horses drop down dead in New York just from hard
usage. Poor brutes, there is a better time coming for them though. When
electricity is more fully developed we'll see some wonderful changes. As
it is, last year in different places, about thirty thousand horses
were released from those abominable horse cars, by having electricity
introduced on the roads. Well, Fleetfoot, do you want another spin? All
right, my boy, go ahead."

Away we went again along a bit of level road. Fleetfoot had no
check-rein on his beautiful neck, and when he trotted, he could hold his
head in an easy, natural position. With his wonderful eyes and flowing
mane and tail, and his glossy, reddish-brown body, I thought that he was
the handsomest horse I had ever seen. He loved to go fast, and when Mr.
Harry spoke to him to slow up again, he tossed his head with impatience.
But he was too sweet-tempered to disobey. In all the years that I have
known Fleetfoot, I have never once seen him refuse to do as his master
told him.

"You have forgotten your whip, haven't you Harry?" I heard Miss Laura
say, as we jogged slowly along, and I ran by the buggy panting and with
my tongue hanging out.

"I never use one," sai