"By the way," said Ribsy, getting up and turning himself around, "what does my tail look like?"

"I think," said Davy, after a careful inspection, "I think it looks something like an old paint-brush."

"So I supposed," said Ribsy, gloomily, and, sitting down again, he went on with his history:—

As spry as a kid and as trim as a spider
Was I in the days of the Turnip-top Hunt,
When I used to get rid of the weight of my rider
And canter contentedly in at the front.
I never was told that this jocular feature
Of mine was a trick reprehensibly rude,
And yet I was sold, like a commonplace creature,
To work in a circus for lodgings and food.

"I suppose you have never been a circus-horse?" said Ribsy, stopping short in his verses again and gazing inquiringly at Davy.

"Never," said Davy.

"Then you don't know anything about it," said Ribsy. "Here we go again:"—

Pray why, if you please, should a capable charger
Perform on a ladder and prance in a show?
And why should his knees be made thicker and larger
By teaching him tricks that he'd rather not know?
Oh! why should a horse, for society fitted,
Be doomed to employment so utterly bad,
And why should a coarse-looking man be permitted
To dance on his back on a top-heavy pad?

Here Ribsy paused once more, and Davy, feeling that he ought to make some sort of an answer to such a lot of questions, said helplessly, "I don't know."

"No more do I," said Ribsy, tossing his head scornfully.