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[67] in vain, to yoke the oxen that he had yoked a hundred times before without difficulty. To see a small boy yoking a pair of oxen is, O City Reader, to behold an amazing exhibition of the power of Mind over Matter. The huge beasts need not come under the yoke—twenty men could not compel them—but they do come under it, at the beck of a boy that can just stagger under the yoke himself and whom one of the oxen, with one horn and a shake of the head, could toss over a; hay-stack. The boy, with the yoke on his shoulders, and one of the ‘bows’ in his hand, marches up to the “off” ox, puts the bow round his neck, thrusts the ends of the bow through the holes of the yoke, fastens them there—and one ox is his. But the other! The boy then removes the other bow, holds up the end of the yoke, and commands the “near” ox to approach, and “come under here sir.” Wonderful to relate the near ox obeys I He walks slowly up, and takes his place by the side of his brother, as though it were a pleasant thing to pant all day before the plough, and he was only too happy to leave the dull pasture. But the ox is a creature of habit. If you catch the near ox first, and then try to get the off ox to come under the near side of the yoke, you will discover that the off ox has an opinion of his own. He won't come. This was the mistake which Horace, one morning in an absent fit, committed, and the off ox could not be brought to deviate from established usage. After much coaxing, and, possibly, some vituperation, Horace was about to give it up, when his brother chanced to come to the field, who saw at a glance what was the matter, and rectified the mistake. ‘Ah!’ his father used to say, after Horace had made a display of this kind, ‘that boy will never get along in this world. He'll never know more than enough to come in when it rains.’

Another little story is told of the brothers. The younger was throwing stones at a pig that preferred to go in a direction exactly contrary to that in which the boys wished to drive him—a common case with pigs, et ceteri. Horace, who never threw stones at pigs, was overheard to say, ‘Now, you ought n't to throw stones at that hog; he don't know anything.’

The person who heard these words uttered by the boy, is one of those libulant individuals who, in the rural districts, are called “old soakers,” and his face, tobacco-stained, and rubicund with the

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