_Doctor Dobbs, and his Horse Nobbs._
Doctor Daniel Dobbs, of Doncaster, had a nag that was called Nobbs.
One day, in the middle of winter, the Doctor having been summoned to
attend a patient at some distance from his dwelling, and being anxious
to return home before it was dark, rode poor Nobbs very hard. On his
arrival, not finding his man in the way, the Doctor fastened Nobbs by
his bridle to a rail in the yard, and went into his parlour, where
he sat down to warm himself by a good fire. It had happened that the
Doctor's dairy-maid had brewed a barrel of strong beer, which had been
drawn off into the cooler; and the dairy-maid having been called away
to milk her cows, she had carelessly left the door of the brewhouse
open. The steam of the beer proved wonderfully inviting to poor Nobbs,
who had been hard rode, and now stood in the cold extremely thirsty.
After sundry efforts he got loose from the rail, and repairing to the
brewhouse, drank so heartily of the beer, that, before he was aware
of it, he fell down dead drunk. The Doctor's man coming home, ran
into the yard to convey Nobbs to the stable; not finding him at the
rail, he looked about, and at length discovered him stretched upon
the ground, cold and insensible. Bursting into the parlour, where
the Doctor was seated with Mrs. Dobbs, he communicated to them the
news of poor Nobby's decease. The Doctor and Mrs. Dobbs were both
good-natured people, and of course were much concerned; but as the
Doctor never suffered misfortunes to get the better of his discretion,
he immediately gave orders that Nobbs should without delay be flayed,
and that his skin should be taken next morning to the currier.
The Doctor's man accordingly set to work: poor Nobbs was dragged to
the dunghill, his skin was stripped off, and he was left to be eaten
by the hounds. He had not, however, lain long before the novelty of
his situation had a considerable effect upon him. As he had lost
his skin, of course the coldness of the night operated with double
activity in dissipating the fumes of the beer which he had swallowed;
and at length he awoke, got upon his legs, and trotted away to the
stable-door, which happened to be close by the parlour. Not finding
it open, and being both cold and hungry, he began to whinny for
assistance. The Doctor and his wife had just done supper, and happened
at that moment to be talking of the accident which had befallen their
nag, over a hot bowl of brandy-punch. No sooner had Nobbs whinnied,
than Mrs. Dobbs turned pale, and exclaimed, "Doctor Dobbs! as sure as I
live, that is Nobb's voice--I know him by his whinny!"
"My Dear," said the Doctor, "it is Nobb's whinny sure enough; but,
poor thing, he is dead, and has been flayed." He had hardly said this
before Nobbs whinnied again--up jumps the Doctor, takes a candle in his
hand, and runs into the yard. The first thing he saw was Nobbs himself
without his skin. The Doctor summoned all his servants, ordered six
sheep to be killed, and clapped their skins upon poor Nobbs. To make a
long story short, Nobbs recovered, and did his work as well as ever.
The sheep-skin stuck fast, and answered his purpose as well as his own
skin ever did. But what is most remarkable, the wool grew rapidly; and
when the shearing season came, the Doctor had Nobbs sheared. Every
year he gave the Doctor a noble fleece, for he carried upon his back,
you know, as much as six sheep; and as long as Nobbs lived, all the
Doctor's stockings, and all Mrs. Dobbs' flannel petticoats, were made
of his wool.
[Illustration: _Doctor Dobbs on his Horse Nobbs._]