As Saxe drew nearer he could see that, in spite of the animal’s warmth, the longer hairs about the mule were covered with hoar-frost, and at every breath a couple of jets of white vapour were sent forth from the mule’s nostrils.
The mule took no heed of his approach, but gave vent to another long, loud, complaining whinny, and kept its head stretched out and its ears pointed in the direction of the top of the valley high above them.
“Hullo, Gros!” cried Saxe, as he approached; and the mule turned a little more away as the boy approached.
“Do you hear?” cried Saxe, stepping aside so as to get up to the mule’s head; but that head was averted a little in the other direction, and the animal’s hind quarters were presented.
“Now, stupid—I mean Dumkoff—I was going to pat your head. I can’t shake hands with your tail!”
He darted sharply a few paces to the other side, but the mule carefully turned, to balance the movement, and still presented his tail.
“Ah, you obstinate old ruffian!” cried Saxe: “how can you expect people to be friendly with you! Well, I’m not going to be beaten by an old mule, anyhow!”
It was a rash declaration, for as Saxe made a rush right by the animal it spun round, and the positions were once more the same.
This evolution was repeated again and again, till Saxe stopped short, panting.
“Here!” he exclaimed. “I thought it was cold this morning, and I’m getting hot. For two pins I’d throw a chump of rock at you, you obstinate old four-legged hit of ill-temper.”