昆汀·雷諾茲 /Quentin Reynolds
Montreal is a very large city. Like all large cities, it has small streets. Streets, for example, like Prince Edward Street - only four blocks long. No one knew Prince Edward Street as well as Pierre Dupin. He had delivered milk to the families on the street for thirty years.
For the past f ifteen years a large white horse pulled his milk wagon. In Montreal, especially in the French part of the city, animals and children are often given the names of saints. Pierre's horse had no name when it f irst came to the milk company. Pierre was told he could use the horse. He moved his hand gently and lovingly across the horse's neck and sides. He looked into the animal's eyes. “This is a gentle horse,” Pierre said. “I can see a beautiful spirit shining out of its eyes. I will name him after Saint Joseph, who also was a gentle and beautiful spirit.”
After about a year, the horse Joseph got to know every house that received milk, and every house that did not.
Every morning at f ive, Pierre arrived at the milk company's stables to f ind his wagon already f illed with bottles of milk and Joseph waiting for him, Pierre would call, “Bonjour, my old friend,” as he climbed into his seat, while Joseph turned his head toward the driver.
Pierre would talk about Joseph. “I never touch the reins. He knows just where to stop. Why, a blind man could deliver my milk with Joseph pulling the wagon.”
So it went on for years-always the same. Pierre and Joseph slowly grew old together. Pierre's huge walrus mustache was white now and Joseph didn't lift his knees so high or raise his head quite so much. Jacques, the bossman of the stables, never noticed that they both were getting old until Pierre appeared one morning carrying a heavy walking stick._____________________
“Hey, Pierre,” Jacques laughed. “Maybe you got the gout, hey?”
“Mais oui, Jacques,” Pierre said. “One grows old. One's legs get tired.”