The ox knoweth his owner,
and the ass his master's crib.
The burro raises his head skyward without, however, raising his somnolent, lids, his nostrils curl till his teeth show, and from his tautly opened mouth comes a long-drawn-out cry, a wild "Yah!" like the wail of a banshee, followed by three loud raspings and expiring in a series of wheezy throatings. Which done, the burro at once relapses into his former immobility. One takes the liberty to observe that the burro's voice is neither one of pain nor of poetry; it is one of exultation mixed with patronizing ridicule. A burro stands; he considers; he philosophizes; he attains nirvana.
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