Sometimes We Had No Trouble; Then We Felt How Smart We Were, And It Made Us Happy; At Other Times The Animals Seemed To Be "Possessed." Sometimes It Is The Horses That Are Afraid; At Others It Is The Mules; And Sometimes The Burros; Generally All Three Together.

The modus is to put your strongest rower in the boat, and then a man with plenty of nerve in the stern to handle the rope and the animal to which it is attached, - when you get the latter into the water.

As many persons as then can be assembled get behind the animal to persuade it to enter the water. The boat is ready to go as soon as the animal is "in," but yet it prefers to be "out." Yellings, shoutings, pushings are of little or no avail, and the gentle pleadings of the man with the rope are as effective as Mrs. Partington's sweeping back of the Atlantic with a broom. Vigorous measures must be used, so a concerted movement is projected. At a given signal the boat is to be pushed off, the oarsman ply his oars with power, the man in the stern is to pull with energy, and a man at each flank of the animal is to push, while every other being is to do his or her part by a shout or a boost. One man swings a riata to help scare the animal in, and the boat pulls out into the current. We all stand and watch. What is the fool horse doing? Scared at first of going into the water, he now is making desperate efforts to climb into the boat. His rope is held as tightly as possible, but the beast swims frantically from one side to the other, endeavoring to climb aboard. His knees thump the boat, and his chin occasionally rests on the gunwale, but active interference thrusts him back. In the meantime, the current is taking the boat well down the river, but we are not alarmed, for we have a good half-mile stretch, with convenient sandy places on the north side, on which to land. Now the horse settles down to steady hard work, and at last, catching sight of the tiny beach, he breaks away from the boat and strikes out for himself, reaching shore before the rower.

Back they come for another. Now we try two burros. Firmly they brace themselves, and refuse to be pushed into the tawny flood. Then they dodge and run and tangle each other up with their neck ropes, patiently strangling each other with desperate insistence. At length they are pushed in, and off they go. After a good ducking, they come up with a snort and a bounce, a look of martyr-like meekness in their eyes, as they settle down to the inevitable. No animal on earth can teach man more than a burro in this regard. He accepts what can't be helped, makes the best of it, and gains happiness out of every patch of thistles and grass he can push his nose into.

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