tachments cannot surpass the
cavalryman's for his horse. They have learned to love one another in the
most trying vicissitudes of life, and the animal manifests affection and
confidence quite as evidently as a human being could.

The cavalier, it is true, is often compelled to drive at a most fearful
rate, as when bearing hurried despatches, or making a charge, frequently
causing almost immediate blindness to the animal. Or, may be, he
continues on a march for many days and nights in succession, as on a
raid, averaging at least sixty-five miles in twenty-four hours, with
little water and less forage; unable to remove the saddle, which has to
be tightly bound, until the animal is so badly galled that the hair
comes off with the blanket at its first removal.

Sufferings like these often cause the death of a large proportion of a
command; and to a careless looker-on these things would appear to be
mere neglects. But these cruel military necessities only develop more
perfectly the rider's sympathy for his suffering beast, and bind them in
closer and more endearing bonds.

Some men had rather injure themselves than have their horses harmed, and
the utmost pains are taken to heal them in case they are wounded. Each
regiment has its veterinary surgeon, whose skill is taxed to the utmost
in his branch of the healing art.

Among the most touching scenes we have witnessed, are those in which the
mortally wounded horse has to be abandoned on the field of carnage.
With tearful eyes the rider and perhaps owner turns to take a last look
of the "unchronicled hero," his fellow-sufferer, that now lies weltering
in his blood, and yet makes every possible effort to follow the
advancing column. The parting is deeply affecting.

Often the cavalryman finds no object to which he may hitch his horse for
the night save his own hand; and thus with the halter fast bound to his
grasp he lies down with a stone, or perhaps his saddle, for a pillow,
his faithful horse standing as a watchful guardian by his side. At times
the animal will walk around him, eating the grass as far as he can
reach, and frequently arousing him by trying to gain the grass on which
he lies; yet it is worthy of note, that an instance can scarcely be
found where the horse has been known to step upon or in anywise injure
his sleeping lord. Such a scene the poet undoubtedly had in his mind
when he sang:

"The murmuring wind, the moving leaves
Lull'd him at length