Scratchbones is certainly not a very elegant name, and yet the animal to whom it belonged, a very ragged-looking mule, was proudly claimed by its owner, Goliath Washington Jackson, an equally ragged-looking Southern darky, to be the philosopher of the mule tribe. Why he claimed this has never been definitely settled, and whenever any question was put to Goliath regarding the excellence of Scratchbones's intelligence, the reply would be something like this:
"Yes, sah! How I know dat mule am intelligent? He! he! he! but dat's funny. You 'member de ole school-massa? Well, sah, he owned dat mule once, an' neber feeded 'im up to de handle. One day Scratch was hungrier dan usual, an' he chewed de ole man's books. He neber forgot dat eddication." And here Goliath would chuckle to himself.
Our town recently received an innovation in the shape of a splendidly asphalted street, and one very hot day, shortly after its completion, Goliath drove up to the door of the hardware store with Scratchbones. Coming in, he began boasting, as usual, of his wonderful mule, and how well he stood the hot weather. None of us young fellows cared to question the heat, and as for the mule, we thought it was either stand it or lie down. He evidently preferred to stand, for there he stood in the blazing sun staring blankly down the street.
Goliath had dropped in to make some purchases, which, of course, necessitated a great deal of talk and time. In the mean while Scratchbones was patiently waiting in the hot sun outside, scarcely budging, unless it was an occasional switch of his tail. A thunder-storm had been brewing, and when Goliath finally started for the door down came the rain, sending up steam from the hot street. Nothing suited him better than to have an excuse to further regale us with a list of his mule's remarkable talents. Among the many, he spoke of his ability to drive Scratchbones, and how well he obeyed him. Now, while this talk had been going on, I had occasionally glanced at Scratchbones, and he seemed uneasy, especially since the rain had started, and was nervously switching his tail back and forth. I thought it was on account of the storm, but casually glancing at him, I noted something that made me smile, and, slipping off my seat, I quietly told the other boys.
"Goliath," I said, "I'll wager a large, juicy watermelon that your mule won't obey you if I tell him not to."
"Ha! ha! ha! He! he! youse is foolin' dis yere ole man, Massa Harry."
"No, no, I mean it. All I'll do is to say something to myself, and your mule won't budge when you say 'gee,' but simply wag his tail."
"It's done, Massa Harry. I'se'll take dat wager, but de melon has to be de largest you can git."
"All right," I said. And as it had stopped raining, Goliath proceeded to his wagon, and, climbing up on the seat, picked up the ropes he called reins and shouted, "Gee up dere, Scratch." But, as I predicted, Scratch never moved a leg, but only switched his tail.
"Gee up dere; what's de mattah wif youse?" But not a move did that mule make. We stood in the doorway laughing so heartily that Goliath grew suspicious, and climbing down, walked slowly around the mule and wagon, doubtless to discover if we had played him a trick.