shire beasts, the little Shetland pony looked almost
like a wild animal. But in reality she was the gentlest creature in the
world. Before she had been many days with them, she began to know the
children quite well; followed them about, ate corn out of the bowl they
held out to her; nay, one day, when the eldest little girl offered her
bread-and-butter, she stooped her head and took it from the child's
hand, just like a young lady. Indeed, Jess--that was her name--was
altogether so lady-like in her behavior, that more than once Cook
allowed her to walk in at the back-door, when she stood politely warming
her nose at the kitchen-fire for a minute or two, then turned round and
as politely walked out again. But she never did any mischief; and was so
quiet and gentle a creature that she bade fair soon to become as great a
pet in the household as the dog, the cat, the kittens, the puppies, the
fowls, the ducks, the cow, the pig, and all the other members of the
family.

The only one who disliked her, and grumbled at her, was the Gardener.
This was odd; because, though cross to children, the old man was kind to
dumb beasts. Even his pig knew his voice and grunted, and held out his
nose to be scratched; and he always gave each successive pig a name,
Jack or Dick, and called them by it, and was quite affectionate to them,
one after the other, until the very day that they were killed. But they
were English pigs--and the pony was Scotch--and the Devonshire Gardener
hated every thing Scotch, he said; besides, he was not used to groom's
work, and the pony required such a deal of grooming on account of her
long hair. More than once Gardener threatened to clip it short, and turn
her into a regular English pony, but the children were in such distress
and mother forbade any such spoiling of Jessie's personal appearance.

At length, to keep things smooth, and to avoid the rough words and even
blows which poor Jess sometimes got, they sought in the village for a
boy to look after her, and found a great rough, shock-headed lad named
Bill, who, for a few shillings a week, consented to come up every
morning and learn the beginning of a groom's business; hoping to end, as
his mother said he should, in sitting, like the squire's fat coachman,
as broad as he was long, on the top of the hammer-cloth of a grand
carriage, and do nothing all day but drive a pair of horses as stout as
himself a few miles along the road and back again.

Bill would