e, and yet the animal to
whom it belonged, a very ragged-looking mule, was proudly claimed by its
owner, Goliath Washington Jackson, an equally ragged-looking Southern
darky, to be the philosopher of the mule tribe. Why he claimed this has
never been definitely settled, and whenever any question was put to
Goliath regarding the excellence of Scratchbones's intelligence, the
reply would be something like this:

"Yes, sah! How I know dat mule am intelligent? He! he! he! but dat's
funny. You 'member de ole school-massa? Well, sah, he owned dat mule
once, an' neber feeded 'im up to de handle. One day Scratch was hungrier
dan usual, an' he chewed de ole man's books. He neber forgot dat
eddication." And here Goliath would chuckle to himself.

Our town recently received an innovation in the shape of a splendidly
asphalted street, and one very hot day, shortly after its completion,
Goliath drove up to the door of the hardware store with Scratchbones.
Coming in, he began boasting, as usual, of his wonderful mule, and how
well he stood the hot weather. None of us young fellows cared to
question the heat, and as for the mule, we thought it was either stand
it or lie down. He evidently preferred to stand, for there he stood in
the blazing sun staring blankly down the street.

Goliath had dropped in to make some purchases, which, of course,
necessitated a great deal of talk and time. In the mean while
Scratchbones was patiently waiting in the hot sun outside, scarcely
budging, unless it was an occasional switch of his tail. A thunder-storm
had been brewing, and when Goliath finally started for the door down
came the rain, sending up steam from the hot street. Nothing suited him
better than to have an excuse to further regale us with a list of his
mule's remarkable talents. Among the many, he spoke of his ability to
drive Scratchbones, and how well he obeyed him. Now, while this talk had
been going on, I had occasionally glanced at Scratchbones, and he seemed
uneasy, especially since the rain had started, and was nervously
switching his tail back and forth. I thought it was on account of the
storm, but casually glancing at him, I noted something that made me
smile, and, slipping off my seat, I quietly told the other boys.

"Goliath," I said, "I'll wager a large, juicy watermelon that your mule
won't obey you if I tell him not to."

"Ha! ha! ha! He! he! youse is foolin' dis yere ole man, Massa Harry."

"No, no, I mean it. All I'