Half a Dozen Girls | Page 5

contemplate the landscape and impress its charms upon his memory.
Job had been twenty-three years old when the doctor handed him over
to his wife; and, as if to prove his relationship to the family, and to
Aunt Jane in particular, he had never advanced a year in age since then,
but, long, long afterwards, his headstone bore the legend:
IN MEMORY OF JOB TROTTER, A FAITHFUL FRIEND, WHO
DIED AT THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE.
A rear view of Job still showed him a fine-looking horse, for his
delicate skin, slightly dappled here and there, his long, thick tail and
proudly arching neck plainly betokened his aristocracy. But
unfortunately, reckless driving in his youth had bent his fore legs to a

decided angle, and turned in his toes in an absurdly deprecating fashion,
until Mrs. Adams declared that she would put a skirt on him to cover
these defects, unless people stopped turning to look after him and
laugh.
But it was when he was in motion that Job exhibited his peculiarities to
the best advantage. His ordinary gait was a slow, dignified walk, varied,
at times, by a trot of which the direction was of the up-and-down
species, and made his progress even slower than usual. But now and
then the old fellow would seem to be inspired with a little of his former
spirit, and, after a skittish little kick, he would straighten his body with
a suddenness which brought Mrs. Adams to her feet, and rush off at a
mad pace that soon faltered and failed, when the old brown head would
turn, and the gentle eyes seem to say pleadingly,--
"I did try, but I can't."
In reality, the cause of Job's slowness lay, not so much in his age as in
his afflicted knees; and they kept his driver in a constant state of
anxiety as to which pair would give out next. Now his hind legs would
suddenly fail him, and he would apparently attempt to seat himself in
the dust; then, just as he had recovered from that shock, his front knees
would collapse, and Job would plunge madly forward on his venerable
nose.
But, after all, they had many a pleasant drive up and down the country
roads, where the old horse plodded onwards, apparently enjoying the
scenery as much as his mistress did, now stopping to graze by the
roadside, now suddenly turning aside and, before his driver was aware
of his intention, landing her in the dooryard of some farmhouse where
the doctor had visited a patient years before. For Job had a retentive
memory, and was never known to forget a road or a house where he
had once been. During the last of the time that the doctor had driven
him, he had lent him to do occasional service at funerals, where Job
was never known to disgrace himself by breaking into an indecorous
trot. Something in the ceremony of these melancholy journeys had
struck Job's fancy and impressed the circumstances on his memory to
such an extent that, ever after, he was reluctant to pass the cemetery

gate, but tugged hard at the lines to show his desire to enter. It was not
so bad when Mrs. Adams and Polly were by themselves; but Mrs.
Adams often invited some convalescing patient of the doctor to go for a
quiet little drive, and it was mortifying to have Job, taking advantage of
the moment when his mistress was deep in conversation, stalk solemnly
under the arching gateway and bring his invalid passenger to a halt
beside some new-made grave. There seemed to be no apology that
could fitly meet the occasion and do away with the gloomy
suggestiveness of the situation.
Aunt Jane rarely had time to drive with Job, for an ordinarily fast
walker could pass him by; but Polly and her mother enjoyed him to the
utmost, and spoiled him as much as they enjoyed him, letting him stroll
along as he chose, stopping whenever and wherever he wished. To
avoid being dependent on the man, who was often away driving the
doctor upon his rounds, Mrs. Adams had learned to harness Job herself,
and nearly every pleasant day she could be seen buckling the straps and
fastening him into the carriage, while the old creature stood quiet,
rubbing his head against her shoulder, now and then, with a gentle,
caressing motion, or turning suddenly to pretend to snap at Polly, who
was much in awe of him, and then throwing up his head and showing
his teeth, in a scornful laugh at her fear.
This was the family circle in which Polly Adams had spent the thirteen
happy years of her life, respecting and loving her father, adoring her
mother, and continually coming in conflict with Aunt