might be safely predicated of our huckleberry pair. Who will admit that he does not know all that is to be known in horse-matters? We therefore asked no questions, but waited patiently for information.
Delay pays demurrage to the wisely patient. Coachee relapsed into the sulks. The driving rain resolved itself into a dim chaos of mist. Xanthus and Balius plodded on, but often paused and gasped, or, turning their heads as if they missed something, strayed from the track and drew us against the dripping bushes. After one such excursion, which had nearly been the ruin of us, and which by calling out coachee’s scourging powers had put him thoroughly in good humor, he turned to us and said, superlatively, —
“Them’s the gormingest hosses I ever see. When I drew ’em in the four-hoss coach for wheelers, they could keep a straight tail. Now they act like they was drunk. They’s gorming, — they won’t do nothin’ without a leader.”
To gorm, then, is to err when there is no leader. Alas, how mankind gorms!
By sunless noon we were well among the mountains. We came to the last New Hampshire house, miles from its neighbors. But it was a self-sufficing house, an epitome of humanity. Grand-mamma, bald under her cap, was seated by the stove dandling grandchild, bald under its cap. Each was highly entertained with the other. Grand-papa was sandy with grandboy’s gingerbread-crumbs. The intervening ages were well represented
