Part I

01 My Early Home

The first place that I can well remember was a large pleasant meadow

with a pond of clear water in it. Some shady trees leaned over it, and

rushes and water-lilies grew at the deep end. Over the hedge on one side

we looked into a plowed field, and on the other we looked over a gate

at our master's house, which stood by the roadside; at the top of the

meadow was a grove of fir trees, and at the bottom a running brook

overhung by a steep bank.

While I was young I lived upon my mother's milk, as I could not eat

grass. In the daytime I ran by her side, and at night I lay down close

by her. When it was hot we used to stand by the pond in the shade of the

trees, and when it was cold we had a nice warm shed near the grove.

As soon as I was old enough to eat grass my mother used to go out to

work in the daytime, and come back in the evening.

There were six young colts in the meadow besides me; they were older

than I was; some were nearly as large as grown-up horses. I used to run

with them, and had great fun; we used to gallop all together round and

round the field as hard as we could go. Sometimes we had rather rough

play, for they would frequently bite and kick as well as gallop.

One day, when there was a good deal of kicking, my mother whinnied to me

to come to her, and then she said:

“I wish you to pay attention to what I am going to say to you. The colts

who live here are very good colts, but they are cart-horse colts, and

of course they have not learned manners. You have been well-bred

and well-born; your father has a great name in these parts, and

your grandfather won the cup two years at the Newmarket races; your

grandmother had the sweetest temper of any horse I ever knew, and I

think you have never seen me kick or bite. I hope you will grow up

gentle and good, and never learn bad ways; do your work with a good

will, lift your feet up well when you trot, and never bite or kick even

in play.”

I have never forgotten my mother's advice; I knew she was a wise old

horse, and our master thought a great deal of her. Her name was Duchess,

but he often called her Pet.

Our master was a good, kind man. He gave us good food, good lodging, and

kind words; he spoke as kindly to us as he did to his little children.

We were all fond of him, and my mother loved him very much. When she saw

him at the gate she would neigh with joy, and trot up to him. He would

pat and stroke her and say, “Well, old Pet, and how is your little

Darkie?” I was a dull black, so he called me Darkie; then he would give

me a piece of bread, which was very good, and sometimes he brought a

carrot for my mother. All the horses would come to him, but I think we

were his favorites. My mother always took him to the town on a market

day in a light gig.

There was a plowboy, Dick, who sometimes came into our field to pluck

blackberries from the hedge. When he had eaten all he wanted he would

have what he called fun with the colts, throwing stones and sticks at

them to make them gallop. We did not much mind him, for we could gallop

off; but sometimes a stone would hit and hurt us.

One day he was at this game, and did not know that the master was in the

next field; but he was there, watching what was going on; over the hedge

he jumped in a snap, and catching Dick by the arm, he gave him such a

box on the ear as made him roar with the pain and surprise. As soon as

we saw the master we trotted up nearer to see what went on.

“Bad boy!” he said, “bad boy! to chase the colts. This is not the first

time, nor the second, but it shall be the last. There--take your money

and go home; I shall not want you on my farm again.” So we never saw

Dick any more. Old Daniel, the man who looked after the horses, was just

as gentle as our master, so we were well off.

02 The Hunt

Before I was two years old a circumstance happened which I have never

forgotten. It was early in the spring; there had been a little frost in

the night, and a light mist still hung over the woods and meadows. I

and the other colts were feeding at the lower part of the field when

we heard, quite in the distance, what sounded like the cry of dogs. The

oldest of the colts raised his head, pricked his ears, and said, “There

are the hounds!” and immediately cantered off, followed by the rest of

us to the upper part of the field, where we could look over the hedge

and see several fields beyond. My mother and an old riding horse of our

master's were also standing near, and seemed to know all about it.

“They have found a hare,” said my mother, “and if they come this way we

shall see the hunt.”

And soon the dogs were all tearing down the field of young wheat next

to ours. I never heard such a noise as they made. They did not bark, nor

howl, nor whine, but kept on a “yo! yo, o, o! yo! yo, o, o!” at the top

of their voices. After them came a number of men on horseback, some of

them in green coats, all galloping as fast as they could. The old horse

snorted and looked eagerly after them, and we young colts wanted to be

galloping with them, but they were soon away into the fields lower

down; here it seemed as if they had come to a stand; the dogs left off

barking, and ran about every way with their noses to the ground.

“They have lost the scent,” said the old horse; “perhaps the hare will

get off.”

“What hare?” I said.

“Oh! I don't know what hare; likely enough it may be one of our own

hares out of the woods; any hare they can find will do for the dogs and

men to run after;” and before long the dogs began their “yo! yo, o, o!”

again, and back they came altogether at full speed, making straight for

our meadow at the part where the high bank and hedge overhang the brook.

“Now we shall see the hare,” said my mother; and just then a hare wild

with fright rushed by and made for the woods. On came the dogs; they

burst over the bank, leaped the stream, and came dashing across the

field followed by the huntsmen. Six or eight men leaped their horses

clean over, close upon the dogs. The hare tried to get through the

fence; it was too thick, and she turned sharp round to make for the

road, but it was too late; the dogs were upon her with their wild cries;

we heard one shriek, and that was the end of her. One of the huntsmen

rode up and whipped off the dogs, who would soon have torn her to

pieces. He held her up by the leg torn and bleeding, and all the

gentlemen seemed well pleased.

As for me, I was so astonished that I did not at first see what was

going on by the brook; but when I did look there was a sad sight; two

fine horses were down, one was struggling in the stream, and the other

was groaning on the grass. One of the riders was getting out of the

water covered with mud, the other lay quite still.

“His neck is broke,” said my mother.

“And serve him right, too,” said one of the colts.

I thought the same, but my mother did not join with us.

“Well, no,” she said, “you must not say that; but though I am an old

horse, and have seen and heard a great deal, I never yet could make out

why men are so fond of this sport; they often hurt themselves, often

spoil good horses, and tear up the fields, and all for a hare or a fox,

or a stag, that they could get more easily some other way; but we are

only horses, and don't know.”

While my mother was saying this we stood and looked on. Many of the

riders had gone to the young man; but my master, who had been watching

what was going on, was the first to raise him. His head fell back and

his arms hung down, and every one looked very serious. There was no

noise now; even the dogs were quiet, and seemed to know that something

was wrong. They carried him to our master's house. I heard afterward

that it was young George Gordon, the squire's only son, a fine, tall

young man, and the pride of his family.

There was now riding off in all directions to the doctor's, to the

farrier's, and no doubt to Squire Gordon's, to let him know about his

son. When Mr. Bond, the farrier, came to look at the black horse that

lay groaning on the grass, he felt him all over, and shook his head; one

of his legs was broken. Then some one ran to our master's house and came

back with a gun; presently there was a loud bang and a dreadful shriek,

and then all was still; the black horse moved no more.

My mother seemed much troubled; she said she had known that horse for

years, and that his name was “Rob Roy”; he was a good horse, and

there was no vice in him. She never would go to that part of the field

afterward.

Not many days after we heard the church-bell tolling for a long time,

and looking over the gate we saw a long, strange black coach that was

covered with black cloth and was drawn by black horses; after that came

another and another and another, and all were black, while the bell kept

tolling, tolling. They were carrying young Gordon to the churchyard to

bury him. He would never ride again. What they did with Rob Roy I never

knew; but 'twas all for one little hare.

03 My Breaking In

I was now beginning to grow handsome; my coat had grown fine and soft,

and was bright black. I had one white foot and a pretty white star on my

forehead. I was thought very handsome; my master would not sell me till

I was four years old; he said lads ought not to work like men, and colts

ought not to work like horses till they were quite grown up.

When I was four years old Squire Gordon came to look at me. He examined

my eyes, my mouth, and my legs; he felt them all down; and then I had

to walk and trot and gallop before him. He seemed to like me, and said,

“When he has been well broken in he will do very well.” My master said

he would break me in himself, as he should not like me to be frightened

or hurt, and he lost no time about it, for the next day he began.

Every one may not know what breaking in is, therefore I will describe

it. It means to teach a horse to wear a saddle and bridle, and to carry

on his back a man, woman or child; to go just the way they wish, and to

go quietly. Besides this he has to learn to wear a collar, a crupper,

and a breeching, and to stand still while they are put on; then to have

a cart or a chaise fixed behind, so that he cannot walk or trot without

dragging it after him; and he must go fast or slow, just as his driver

wishes. He must never start at what he sees, nor speak to other horses,

nor bite, nor kick, nor have any will of his own; but always do his

master's will, even though he may be very tired or hungry; but the worst

of all is, when his harness is once on, he may neither jump for joy nor

lie down for weariness. So you see this breaking in is a great thing.

I had of course long been used to a halter and a headstall, and to be

led about in the fields and lanes quietly, but now I was to have a bit

and bridle; my master gave me some oats as usual, and after a good deal

of coaxing he got the bit into my mouth, and the bridle fixed, but it

was a nasty thing! Those who have never had a bit in their mouths cannot

think how bad it feels; a great piece of cold hard steel as thick as

a man's finger to be pushed into one's mouth, between one's teeth, and

over one's tongue, with the ends coming out at the corner of your mouth,

and held fast there by straps over your head, under your throat, round

your nose, and under your chin; so that no way in the world can you get

rid of the nasty hard thing; it is very bad! yes, very bad! at least I

thought so; but I knew my mother always wore one when she went out, and

all horses did when they were grown up; and so, what with the nice oats,

and what with my master's pats, kind words, and gentle ways, I got to

wear my bit and bridle.

Next came the saddle, but that was not half so bad; my master put it

on my back very gently, while old Daniel held my head; he then made the

girths fast under my body, patting and talking to me all the time; then

I had a few oats, then a little leading about; and this he did every

day till I began to look for the oats and the saddle. At length, one

morning, my master got on my back and rode me round the meadow on the

soft grass. It certainly did feel queer; but I must say I felt rather

proud to carry my master, and as he continued to ride me a little every

day I soon became accustomed to it.

The next unpleasant business was putting on the iron shoes; that too was

very hard at first. My master went with me to the smith's forge, to see

that I was not hurt or got any fright. The blacksmith took my feet in

his hand, one after the other, and cut away some of the hoof. It did not

pain me, so I stood still on three legs till he had done them all. Then

he took a piece of iron the shape of my foot, and clapped it on, and

drove some nails through the shoe quite into my hoof, so that the shoe

was firmly on. My feet felt very stiff and heavy, but in time I got used

to it.

And now having got so far, my master went on to break me to harness;

there were more new things to wear. First, a stiff heavy collar just

on my neck, and a bridle with great side-pieces against my eyes called

blinkers, and blinkers indeed they were, for I could not see on either

side, but only straight in front of me; next, there was a small saddle

with a nasty stiff strap that went right under my tail; that was the

crupper. I hated the crupper; to have my long tail doubled up and poked

through that strap was almost as bad as the bit. I never felt more like

kicking, but of course I could not kick such a good master, and so

in time I got used to everything, and could do my work as well as my

mother.

I must not forget to mention one part of my training, which I have

always considered a very great advantage. My master sent me for a

fortnight to a neighboring farmer's, who had a meadow which was skirted

on one side by the railway. Here were some sheep and cows, and I was

turned in among them.

I shall never forget the first train that ran by. I was feeding quietly

near the pales which separated the meadow from the railway, when I heard

a strange sound at a distance, and before I knew whence it came--with

a rush and a clatter, and a puffing out of smoke--a long black train of

something flew by, and was gone almost before I could draw my breath. I

turned and galloped to the further side of the meadow as fast as I could

go, and there I stood snorting with astonishment and fear. In the course

of the day many other trains went by, some more slowly; these drew up

at the station close by, and sometimes made an awful shriek and groan

before they stopped. I thought it very dreadful, but the cows went

on eating very quietly, and hardly raised their heads as the black

frightful thing came puffing and grinding past.

For the first few days I could not feed in peace; but as I found that

this terrible creature never came into the field, or did me any harm, I

began to disregard it, and very soon I cared as little about the passing

of a train as the cows and sheep did.

Since then I have seen many horses much alarmed and restive at the sight

or sound of a steam engine; but thanks to my good master's care, I am as

fearless at railway stations as in my own stable.

Now if any one wants to break in a young horse well, that is the way.

My master often drove me in double harness with my mother, because she

was steady and could teach me how to go better than a strange horse. She

told me the better I behaved the better I should be treated, and that

it was wisest always to do my best to please my master; “but,” said she,

“there are a great many kinds of men; there are good thoughtful men like

our master, that any horse may be proud to serve; and there are bad,

cruel men, who never ought to have a horse or dog to call their own.

Besides, there are a great many foolish men, vain, ignorant, and

careless, who never trouble themselves to think; these spoil more horses

than all, just for want of sense; they don't mean it, but they do it for

all that. I hope you will fall into good hands; but a horse never knows

who may buy him, or who may drive him; it is all a chance for us; but

still I say, do your best wherever it is, and keep up your good name.”

04 Birtwick Park

At this time I used to stand in the stable and my coat was brushed every

day till it shone like a rook's wing. It was early in May, when there

came a man from Squire Gordon's, who took me away to the hall. My master

said, “Good-by, Darkie; be a good horse, and always do your best.” I

could not say “good-by”, so I put my nose into his hand; he patted me

kindly, and I left my first home. As I lived some years with Squire

Gordon, I may as well tell something about the place.

Squire Gordon's park skirted the village of Birtwick. It was entered by

a large iron gate, at which stood the first lodge, and then you trotted

along on a smooth road between clumps of large old trees; then another

lodge and another gate, which brought you to the house and the gardens.

Beyond this lay the home paddock, the old orchard, and the stables.

There was accommodation for many horses and carriages; but I need only

describe the stable into which I was taken; this was very roomy, with

four good stalls; a large swinging window opened into the yard, which

made it pleasant and airy.

The first stall was a large square one, shut in behind with a wooden

gate; the others were common stalls, good stalls, but not nearly so

large; it had a low rack for hay and a low manger for corn; it was

called a loose box, because the horse that was put into it was not tied

up, but left loose, to do as he liked. It is a great thing to have a

loose box.

Into this fine box the groom put me; it was clean, sweet, and airy. I

never was in a better box than that, and the sides were not so high but

that I could see all that went on through the iron rails that were at

the top.

He gave me some very nice oats, he patted me, spoke kindly, and then

went away.

When I had eaten my corn I looked round. In the stall next to mine stood

a little fat gray pony, with a thick mane and tail, a very pretty head,

and a pert little nose.

I put my head up to the iron rails at the top of my box, and said, “How

do you do? What is your name?”

He turned round as far as his halter would allow, held up his head,

and said, “My name is Merrylegs. I am very handsome; I carry the young

ladies on my back, and sometimes I take our mistress out in the low

chair. They think a great deal of me, and so does James. Are you going

to live next door to me in the box?”

I said, “Yes.”

“Well, then,” he said, “I hope you are good-tempered; I do not like any

one next door who bites.”

Just then a horse's head looked over from the stall beyond; the ears

were laid back, and the eye looked rather ill-tempered. This was a tall

chestnut mare, with a long handsome neck. She looked across to me and

said:

“So it is you who have turned me out of my box; it is a very strange

thing for a colt like you to come and turn a lady out of her own home.”

“I beg your pardon,” I said, “I have turned no one out; the man who

brought me put me here, and I had nothing to do with it; and as to my

being a colt, I am turned four years old and am a grown-up horse. I

never had words yet with horse or mare, and it is my wish to live at

peace.”

“Well,” she said, “we shall see. Of course, I do not want to have words

with a young thing like you.” I said no more.

In the afternoon, when she went out, Merrylegs told me all about it.

“The thing is this,” said Merrylegs. “Ginger has a bad habit of biting

and snapping; that is why they call her Ginger, and when she was in the

loose box she used to snap very much. One day she bit James in the arm

and made it bleed, and so Miss Flora and Miss Jessie, who are very fond

of me, were afraid to come into the stable. They used to bring me nice

things to eat, an apple or a carrot, or a piece of bread, but after

Ginger stood in that box they dared not come, and I missed them very

much. I hope they will now come again, if you do not bite or snap.”

I told him I never bit anything but grass, hay, and corn, and could not

think what pleasure Ginger found it.

“Well, I don't think she does find pleasure,” says Merrylegs; “it is

just a bad habit; she says no one was ever kind to her, and why should

she not bite? Of course, it is a very bad habit; but I am sure, if all

she says be true, she must have been very ill-used before she came here.

John does all he can to please her, and James does all he can, and our

master never uses a whip if a horse acts right; so I think she might be

good-tempered here. You see,” he said, with a wise look, “I am twelve

years old; I know a great deal, and I can tell you there is not a better

place for a horse all round the country than this. John is the best

groom that ever was; he has been here fourteen years; and you never saw

such a kind boy as James is; so that it is all Ginger's own fault that

she did not stay in that box.”

05 A Fair Start

The name of the coachman was John Manly; he had a wife and one little

child, and they lived in the coachman's cottage, very near the stables.

The next morning he took me into the yard and gave me a good grooming,

and just as I was going into my box, with my coat soft and bright, the

squire came in to look at me, and seemed pleased. “John,” he said,

“I meant to have tried the new horse this morning, but I have other

business. You may as well take him around after breakfast; go by the

common and the Highwood, and back by the watermill and the river; that

will show his paces.”

“I will, sir,” said John. After breakfast he came and fitted me with a

bridle. He was very particular in letting out and taking in the straps,

to fit my head comfortably; then he brought a saddle, but it was not

broad enough for my back; he saw it in a minute and went for another,

which fitted nicely. He rode me first slowly, then a trot, then a

canter, and when we were on the common he gave me a light touch with his

whip, and we had a splendid gallop.

“Ho, ho! my boy,” he said, as he pulled me up, “you would like to follow

the hounds, I think.”

As we came back through the park we met the Squire and Mrs. Gordon

walking; they stopped, and John jumped off.

“Well, John, how does he go?”

“First-rate, sir,” answered John; “he is as fleet as a deer, and has a

fine spirit too; but the lightest touch of the rein will guide him. Down

at the end of the common we met one of those traveling carts hung all

over with baskets, rugs, and such like; you know, sir, many horses will

not pass those carts quietly; he just took a good look at it, and then

went on as quiet and pleasant as could be. They were shooting rabbits

near the Highwood, and a gun went off close by; he pulled up a little

and looked, but did not stir a step to right or left. I just held the

rein steady and did not hurry him, and it's my opinion he has not been

frightened or ill-used while he was young.”

“That's well,” said the squire, “I will try him myself to-morrow.”

The next day I was brought up for my master. I remembered my mother's

counsel and my good old master's, and I tried to do exactly what he

wanted me to do. I found he was a very good rider, and thoughtful for

his horse too. When he came home the lady was at the hall door as he

rode up.

“Well, my dear,” she said, “how do you like him?”

“He is exactly what John said,” he replied; “a pleasanter creature I

never wish to mount. What shall we call him?”

“Would you like Ebony?” said she; “he is as black as ebony.”

“No, not Ebony.”

“Will you call him Blackbird, like your uncle's old horse?”

“No, he is far handsomer than old Blackbird ever was.”

“Yes,” she said, “he is really quite a beauty, and he has such a sweet,

good-tempered face, and such a fine, intelligent eye--what do you say to

calling him Black Beauty?”

“Black Beauty--why, yes, I think that is a very good name. If you like

it shall be his name;” and so it was.

When John went into the stable he told James that master and mistress

had chosen a good, sensible English name for me, that meant something;

not like Marengo, or Pegasus, or Abdallah. They both laughed, and James

said, “If it was not for bringing back the past, I should have named him

Rob Roy, for I never saw two horses more alike.”

“That's no wonder,” said John; “didn't you know that Farmer Grey's old

Duchess was the mother of them both?”

I had never heard that before; and so poor Rob Roy who was killed

at that hunt was my brother! I did not wonder that my mother was so

troubled. It seems that horses have no relations; at least they never

know each other after they are sold.

John seemed very proud of me; he used to make my mane and tail almost as

smooth as a lady's hair, and he would talk to me a great deal; of course

I did not understand all he said, but I learned more and more to know

what he meant, and what he wanted me to do. I grew very fond of him, he

was so gentle and kind; he seemed to know just how a horse feels, and

when he cleaned me he knew the tender places and the ticklish places;

when he brushed my head he went as carefully over my eyes as if they

were his own, and never stirred up any ill-temper.

James Howard, the stable boy, was just as gentle and pleasant in his

way, so I thought myself well off. There was another man who helped in

the yard, but he had very little to do with Ginger and me.

A few days after this I had to go out with Ginger in the carriage. I

wondered how we should get on together; but except laying her ears

back when I was led up to her, she behaved very well. She did her work

honestly, and did her full share, and I never wish to have a better

partner in double harness. When we came to a hill, instead of slackening

her pace, she would throw her weight right into the collar, and pull

away straight up. We had both the same sort of courage at our work, and

John had oftener to hold us in than to urge us forward; he never had to

use the whip with either of us; then our paces were much the same, and

I found it very easy to keep step with her when trotting, which made it

pleasant, and master always liked it when we kept step well, and so did

John. After we had been out two or three times together we grew quite

friendly and sociable, which made me feel very much at home.

As for Merrylegs, he and I soon became great friends; he was such a

cheerful, plucky, good-tempered little fellow that he was a favorite

with every one, and especially with Miss Jessie and Flora, who used to

ride him about in the orchard, and have fine games with him and their

little dog Frisky.

Our master had two other horses that stood in another stable. One was

Justice, a roan cob, used for riding or for the luggage cart; the other

was an old brown hunter, named Sir Oliver; he was past work now, but was

a great favorite with the master, who gave him the run of the park; he

sometimes did a little light carting on the estate, or carried one of

the young ladies when they rode out with their father, for he was very

gentle and could be trusted with a child as well as Merrylegs. The cob

was a strong, well-made, good-tempered horse, and we sometimes had a

little chat in the paddock, but of course I could not be so intimate

with him as with Ginger, who stood in the same stable.

06 Liberty

I was quite happy in my new place, and if there was one thing that I

missed it must not be thought I was discontented; all who had to do with

me were good and I had a light airy stable and the best of food. What

more could I want? Why, liberty! For three years and a half of my life

I had had all the liberty I could wish for; but now, week after week,

month after month, and no doubt year after year, I must stand up in a

stable night and day except when I am wanted, and then I must be just

as steady and quiet as any old horse who has worked twenty years. Straps

here and straps there, a bit in my mouth, and blinkers over my eyes.

Now, I am not complaining, for I know it must be so. I only mean to say

that for a young horse full of strength and spirits, who has been used

to some large field or plain where he can fling up his head and toss up

his tail and gallop away at full speed, then round and back again with

a snort to his companions--I say it is hard never to have a bit more

liberty to do as you like. Sometimes, when I have had less exercise than

usual, I have felt so full of life and spring that when John has taken

me out to exercise I really could not keep quiet; do what I would, it

seemed as if I must jump, or dance, or prance, and many a good shake I

know I must have given him, especially at the first; but he was always

good and patient.

“Steady, steady, my boy,” he would say; “wait a bit, and we will have a

good swing, and soon get the tickle out of your feet.” Then as soon as

we were out of the village, he would give me a few miles at a spanking

trot, and then bring me back as fresh as before, only clear of the

fidgets, as he called them. Spirited horses, when not enough exercised,

are often called skittish, when it is only play; and some grooms will

punish them, but our John did not; he knew it was only high spirits.

Still, he had his own ways of making me understand by the tone of

his voice or the touch of the rein. If he was very serious and quite

determined, I always knew it by his voice, and that had more power with

me than anything else, for I was very fond of him.

I ought to say that sometimes we had our liberty for a few hours; this

used to be on fine Sundays in the summer-time. The carriage never went

out on Sundays, because the church was not far off.

It was a great treat to us to be turned out into the home paddock or

the old orchard; the grass was so cool and soft to our feet, the air so

sweet, and the freedom to do as we liked was so pleasant--to gallop, to

lie down, and roll over on our backs, or to nibble the sweet grass.

Then it was a very good time for talking, as we stood together under the

shade of the large chestnut tree.

07 Ginger

One day when Ginger and I were standing alone in the shade, we had a

great deal of talk; she wanted to know all about my bringing up and

breaking in, and I told her.

“Well,” said she, “if I had had your bringing up I might have had as

good a temper as you, but now I don't believe I ever shall.”

“Why not?” I said.

“Because it has been all so different with me,” she replied. “I never

had any one, horse or man, that was kind to me, or that I cared to

please, for in the first place I was taken from my mother as soon as I

was weaned, and put with a lot of other young colts; none of them cared

for me, and I cared for none of them. There was no kind master like

yours to look after me, and talk to me, and bring me nice things to eat.

The man that had the care of us never gave me a kind word in my life.

I do not mean that he ill-used me, but he did not care for us one

bit further than to see that we had plenty to eat, and shelter in the

winter. A footpath ran through our field, and very often the great boys

passing through would fling stones to make us gallop. I was never hit,

but one fine young colt was badly cut in the face, and I should think

it would be a scar for life. We did not care for them, but of course

it made us more wild, and we settled it in our minds that boys were our

enemies. We had very good fun in the free meadows, galloping up and down

and chasing each other round and round the field; then standing still

under the shade of the trees. But when it came to breaking in, that was

a bad time for me; several men came to catch me, and when at last they

closed me in at one corner of the field, one caught me by the forelock,

another caught me by the nose and held it so tight I could hardly draw

my breath; then another took my under jaw in his hard hand and wrenched

my mouth open, and so by force they got on the halter and the bar into

my mouth; then one dragged me along by the halter, another flogging

behind, and this was the first experience I had of men's kindness; it

was all force. They did not give me a chance to know what they wanted.

I was high bred and had a great deal of spirit, and was very wild, no

doubt, and gave them, I dare say, plenty of trouble, but then it was

dreadful to be shut up in a stall day after day instead of having my

liberty, and I fretted and pined and wanted to get loose. You know

yourself it's bad enough when you have a kind master and plenty of

coaxing, but there was nothing of that sort for me.

“There was one--the old master, Mr. Ryder--who, I think, could soon have

brought me round, and could have done anything with me; but he had given

up all the hard part of the trade to his son and to another experienced

man, and he only came at times to oversee. His son was a strong, tall,

bold man; they called him Samson, and he used to boast that he had never

found a horse that could throw him. There was no gentleness in him, as

there was in his father, but only hardness, a hard voice, a hard eye, a

hard hand; and I felt from the first that what he wanted was to wear all

the spirit out of me, and just make me into a quiet, humble, obedient

piece of horseflesh. 'Horseflesh'! Yes, that is all that he thought

about,” and Ginger stamped her foot as if the very thought of him made

her angry. Then she went on:

“If I did not do exactly what he wanted he would get put out, and make

me run round with that long rein in the training field till he had

tired me out. I think he drank a good deal, and I am quite sure that the

oftener he drank the worse it was for me. One day he had worked me hard

in every way he could, and when I lay down I was tired, and miserable,

and angry; it all seemed so hard. The next morning he came for me early,

and ran me round again for a long time. I had scarcely had an hour's

rest, when he came again for me with a saddle and bridle and a new kind

of bit. I could never quite tell how it came about; he had only just

mounted me on the training ground, when something I did put him out

of temper, and he chucked me hard with the rein. The new bit was very

painful, and I reared up suddenly, which angered him still more, and he

began to flog me. I felt my whole spirit set against him, and I began

to kick, and plunge, and rear as I had never done before, and we had a

regular fight; for a long time he stuck to the saddle and punished me

cruelly with his whip and spurs, but my blood was thoroughly up, and I

cared for nothing he could do if only I could get him off. At last after

a terrible struggle I threw him off backward. I heard him fall heavily

on the turf, and without looking behind me, I galloped off to the other

end of the field; there I turned round and saw my persecutor slowly

rising from the ground and going into the stable. I stood under an oak

tree and watched, but no one came to catch me. The time went on, and the

sun was very hot; the flies swarmed round me and settled on my bleeding

flanks where the spurs had dug in. I felt hungry, for I had not eaten

since the early morning, but there was not enough grass in that meadow

for a goose to live on. I wanted to lie down and rest, but with the

saddle strapped tightly on there was no comfort, and there was not a

drop of water to drink. The afternoon wore on, and the sun got low. I

saw the other colts led in, and I knew they were having a good feed.

“At last, just as the sun went down, I saw the old master come out with

a sieve in his hand. He was a very fine old gentleman with quite white

hair, but his voice was what I should know him by among a thousand. It

was not high, nor yet low, but full, and clear, and kind, and when

he gave orders it was so steady and decided that every one knew, both

horses and men, that he expected to be obeyed. He came quietly along,

now and then shaking the oats about that he had in the sieve, and

speaking cheerfully and gently to me: 'Come along, lassie, come along,

lassie; come along, come along.' I stood still and let him come up; he

held the oats to me, and I began to eat without fear; his voice took all

my fear away. He stood by, patting and stroking me while I was eating,

and seeing the clots of blood on my side he seemed very vexed. 'Poor

lassie! it was a bad business, a bad business;' then he quietly took the

rein and led me to the stable; just at the door stood Samson. I laid my

ears back and snapped at him. 'Stand back,' said the master, 'and keep

out of her way; you've done a bad day's work for this filly.' He growled

out something about a vicious brute. 'Hark ye,' said the father, 'a

bad-tempered man will never make a good-tempered horse. You've not

learned your trade yet, Samson.' Then he led me into my box, took off

the saddle and bridle with his own hands, and tied me up; then he called

for a pail of warm water and a sponge, took off his coat, and while the

stable-man held the pail, he sponged my sides a good while, so tenderly

that I was sure he knew how sore and bruised they were. 'Whoa! my pretty

one,' he said, 'stand still, stand still.' His very voice did me good,

and the bathing was very comfortable. The skin was so broken at the

corners of my mouth that I could not eat the hay, the stalks hurt me. He

looked closely at it, shook his head, and told the man to fetch a good

bran mash and put some meal into it. How good that mash was! and so soft

and healing to my mouth. He stood by all the time I was eating, stroking

me and talking to the man. 'If a high-mettled creature like this,'

said he, 'can't be broken by fair means, she will never be good for

anything.'

“After that he often came to see me, and when my mouth was healed the

other breaker, Job, they called him, went on training me; he was steady

and thoughtful, and I soon learned what he wanted.”

08 Ginger's Story Continued

The next time that Ginger and I were together in the paddock she told me

about her first place.

“After my breaking in,” she said, “I was bought by a dealer to match

another chestnut horse. For some weeks he drove us together, and then we

were sold to a fashionable gentleman, and were sent up to London. I had

been driven with a check-rein by the dealer, and I hated it worse

than anything else; but in this place we were reined far tighter, the

coachman and his master thinking we looked more stylish so. We were

often driven about in the park and other fashionable places. You who

never had a check-rein on don't know what it is, but I can tell you it

is dreadful.

“I like to toss my head about and hold it as high as any horse; but

fancy now yourself, if you tossed your head up high and were obliged to

hold it there, and that for hours together, not able to move it at all,

except with a jerk still higher, your neck aching till you did not know

how to bear it. Besides that, to have two bits instead of one--and mine

was a sharp one, it hurt my tongue and my jaw, and the blood from my

tongue colored the froth that kept flying from my lips as I chafed and

fretted at the bits and rein. It was worst when we had to stand by the

hour waiting for our mistress at some grand party or entertainment, and

if I fretted or stamped with impatience the whip was laid on. It was

enough to drive one mad.”

“Did not your master take any thought for you?” I said.

“No,” said she, “he only cared to have a stylish turnout, as they

call it; I think he knew very little about horses; he left that to his

coachman, who told him I had an irritable temper! that I had not been

well broken to the check-rein, but I should soon get used to it; but he

was not the man to do it, for when I was in the stable, miserable and

angry, instead of being smoothed and quieted by kindness, I got only a

surly word or a blow. If he had been civil I would have tried to

bear it. I was willing to work, and ready to work hard too; but to be

tormented for nothing but their fancies angered me. What right had they

to make me suffer like that? Besides the soreness in my mouth, and

the pain in my neck, it always made my windpipe feel bad, and if I had

stopped there long I know it would have spoiled my breathing; but I grew

more and more restless and irritable, I could not help it; and I began

to snap and kick when any one came to harness me; for this the groom

beat me, and one day, as they had just buckled us into the carriage,

and were straining my head up with that rein, I began to plunge and

kick with all my might. I soon broke a lot of harness, and kicked myself

clear; so that was an end of that place.

“After this I was sent to Tattersall's to be sold; of course I could not

be warranted free from vice, so nothing was said about that. My handsome

appearance and good paces soon brought a gentleman to bid for me, and I

was bought by another dealer; he tried me in all kinds of ways and with

different bits, and he soon found out what I could not bear. At last

he drove me quite without a check-rein, and then sold me as a perfectly

quiet horse to a gentleman in the country; he was a good master, and I

was getting on very well, but his old groom left him and a new one came.

This man was as hard-tempered and hard-handed as Samson; he always spoke

in a rough, impatient voice, and if I did not move in the stall the

moment he wanted me, he would hit me above the hocks with his stable

broom or the fork, whichever he might have in his hand. Everything he

did was rough, and I began to hate him; he wanted to make me afraid

of him, but I was too high-mettled for that, and one day when he had

aggravated me more than usual I bit him, which of course put him in a

great rage, and he began to hit me about the head with a riding whip.

After that he never dared to come into my stall again; either my heels

or my teeth were ready for him, and he knew it. I was quite quiet with

my master, but of course he listened to what the man said, and so I was

sold again.

“The same dealer heard of me, and said he thought he knew one place

where I should do well. ''Twas a pity,' he said, 'that such a fine horse

should go to the bad, for want of a real good chance,' and the end of it

was that I came here not long before you did; but I had then made up my

mind that men were my natural enemies and that I must defend myself. Of

course it is very different here, but who knows how long it will last? I

wish I could think about things as you do; but I can't, after all I have

gone through.”

“Well,” I said, “I think it would be a real shame if you were to bite or

kick John or James.”

“I don't mean to,” she said, “while they are good to me. I did bite

James once pretty sharp, but John said, 'Try her with kindness,' and

instead of punishing me as I expected, James came to me with his arm

bound up, and brought me a bran mash and stroked me; and I have never

snapped at him since, and I won't either.”

I was sorry for Ginger, but of course I knew very little then, and I

thought most likely she made the worst of it; however, I found that as

the weeks went on she grew much more gentle and cheerful, and had lost

the watchful, defiant look that she used to turn on any strange person

who came near her; and one day James said, “I do believe that mare is

getting fond of me, she quite whinnied after me this morning when I had

been rubbing her forehead.”

“Ay, ay, Jim, 'tis 'the Birtwick balls',” said John, “she'll be as good

as Black Beauty by and by; kindness is all the physic she wants, poor

thing!” Master noticed the change, too, and one day when he got out of

the carriage and came to speak to us, as he often did, he stroked her

beautiful neck. “Well, my pretty one, well, how do things go with you

now? You are a good bit happier than when you came to us, I think.”

She put her nose up to him in a friendly, trustful way, while he rubbed

it gently.

“We shall make a cure of her, John,” he said.

“Yes, sir, she's wonderfully improved; she's not the same creature that

she was; it's 'the Birtwick balls', sir,” said John, laughing.

This was a little joke of John's; he used to say that a regular course

of “the Birtwick horseballs” would cure almost any vicious horse; these

balls, he said, were made up of patience and gentleness, firmness and

petting, one pound of each to be mixed up with half a pint of common

sense, and given to the horse every day.

09 Merrylegs

Mr. Blomefield, the vicar, had a large family of boys and girls;

sometimes they used to come and play with Miss Jessie and Flora. One

of the girls was as old as Miss Jessie; two of the boys were older, and

there were several little ones. When they came there was plenty of work

for Merrylegs, for nothing pleased them so much as getting on him by

turns and riding him all about the orchard and the home paddock, and

this they would do by the hour together.

One afternoon he had been out with them a long time, and when James

brought him in and put on his halter he said:

“There, you rogue, mind how you behave yourself, or we shall get into

trouble.”

“What have you been doing, Merrylegs?” I asked.

“Oh!” said he, tossing his little head, “I have only been giving those

young people a lesson; they did not know when they had had enough, nor

when I had had enough, so I just pitched them off backward; that was the

only thing they could understand.”

“What!” said I, “you threw the children off? I thought you did know

better than that! Did you throw Miss Jessie or Miss Flora?”

He looked very much offended, and said:

“Of course not; I would not do such a thing for the best oats that ever

came into the stable; why, I am as careful of our young ladies as the

master could be, and as for the little ones it is I who teach them to

ride. When they seem frightened or a little unsteady on my back I go as

smooth and as quiet as old pussy when she is after a bird; and when they

are all right I go on again faster, you see, just to use them to it; so

don't you trouble yourself preaching to me; I am the best friend and the

best riding-master those children have. It is not them, it is the boys;

boys,” said he, shaking his mane, “are quite different; they must be

broken in as we were broken in when we were colts, and just be taught

what's what. The other children had ridden me about for nearly two

hours, and then the boys thought it was their turn, and so it was, and

I was quite agreeable. They rode me by turns, and I galloped them about,

up and down the fields and all about the orchard, for a good hour. They

had each cut a great hazel stick for a riding-whip, and laid it on a

little too hard; but I took it in good part, till at last I thought we

had had enough, so I stopped two or three times by way of a hint.

Boys, you see, think a horse or pony is like a steam-engine or a

thrashing-machine, and can go on as long and as fast as they please;

they never think that a pony can get tired, or have any feelings; so as

the one who was whipping me could not understand I just rose up on

my hind legs and let him slip off behind--that was all. He mounted me

again, and I did the same. Then the other boy got up, and as soon as

he began to use his stick I laid him on the grass, and so on, till they

were able to understand--that was all. They are not bad boys; they don't

wish to be cruel. I like them very well; but you see I had to give them

a lesson. When they brought me to James and told him I think he was very

angry to see such big sticks. He said they were only fit for drovers or

gypsies, and not for young gentlemen.”

“If I had been you,” said Ginger, “I would have given those boys a good

kick, and that would have given them a lesson.”

“No doubt you would,” said Merrylegs; “but then I am not quite such a

fool (begging your pardon) as to anger our master or make James ashamed

of me. Besides, those children are under my charge when they are riding;

I tell you they are intrusted to me. Why, only the other day I heard our

master say to Mrs. Blomefield, 'My dear madam, you need not be anxious

about the children; my old Merrylegs will take as much care of them as

you or I could; I assure you I would not sell that pony for any money,

he is so perfectly good-tempered and trustworthy;' and do you think I am

such an ungrateful brute as to forget all the kind treatment I have

had here for five years, and all the trust they place in me, and turn

vicious because a couple of ignorant boys used me badly? No, no! you

never had a good place where they were kind to you, and so you don't

know, and I'm sorry for you; but I can tell you good places make good

horses. I wouldn't vex our people for anything; I love them, I do,” said

Merrylegs, and he gave a low “ho, ho, ho!” through his nose, as he used

to do in the morning when he heard James' footstep at the door.

“Besides,” he went on, “if I took to kicking where should I be? Why,

sold off in a jiffy, and no character, and I might find myself slaved

about under a butcher's boy, or worked to death at some seaside place

where no one cared for me, except to find out how fast I could go, or be

flogged along in some cart with three or four great men in it going out

for a Sunday spree, as I have often seen in the place I lived in before

I came here; no,” said he, shaking his head, “I hope I shall never come

to that.”

10 A Talk in the Orchard

Ginger and I were not of the regular tall carriage horse breed, we had

more of the racing blood in us. We stood about fifteen and a half hands

high; we were therefore just as good for riding as we were for driving,

and our master used to say that he disliked either horse or man that

could do but one thing; and as he did not want to show off in London

parks, he preferred a more active and useful kind of horse. As for us,

our greatest pleasure was when we were saddled for a riding party; the

master on Ginger, the mistress on me, and the young ladies on Sir Oliver

and Merrylegs. It was so cheerful to be trotting and cantering all

together that it always put us in high spirits. I had the best of it,

for I always carried the mistress; her weight was little, her voice was

sweet, and her hand was so light on the rein that I was guided almost

without feeling it.

Oh! if people knew what a comfort to horses a light hand is, and how it

keeps a good mouth and a good temper, they surely would not chuck, and

drag, and pull at the rein as they often do. Our mouths are so tender

that where they have not been spoiled or hardened with bad or ignorant

treatment, they feel the slightest movement of the driver's hand, and

we know in an instant what is required of us. My mouth has never been

spoiled, and I believe that was why the mistress preferred me to Ginger,

although her paces were certainly quite as good. She used often to envy

me, and said it was all the fault of breaking in, and the gag bit in

London, that her mouth was not so perfect as mine; and then old Sir

Oliver would say, “There, there! don't vex yourself; you have the

greatest honor; a mare that can carry a tall man of our master's weight,

with all your spring and sprightly action, does not need to hold her

head down because she does not carry the lady; we horses must take

things as they come, and always be contented and willing so long as we

are kindly used.”

I had often wondered how it was that Sir Oliver had such a very short

tail; it really was only six or seven inches long, with a tassel of hair

hanging from it; and on one of our holidays in the orchard I ventured to

ask him by what accident it was that he had lost his tail. “Accident!”

he snorted with a fierce look, “it was no accident! it was a cruel,

shameful, cold-blooded act! When I was young I was taken to a place

where these cruel things were done; I was tied up, and made fast so that

I could not stir, and then they came and cut off my long and beautiful

tail, through the flesh and through the bone, and took it away.

“How dreadful!” I exclaimed.

“Dreadful, ah! it was dreadful; but it was not only the pain, though

that was terrible and lasted a long time; it was not only the indignity

of having my best ornament taken from me, though that was bad; but it

was this, how could I ever brush the flies off my sides and my hind legs

any more? You who have tails just whisk the flies off without thinking

about it, and you can't tell what a torment it is to have them settle

upon you and sting and sting, and have nothing in the world to lash them

off with. I tell you it is a lifelong wrong, and a lifelong loss; but

thank heaven, they don't do it now.”

“What did they do it for then?” said Ginger.

“For fashion!” said the old horse with a stamp of his foot; “for

fashion! if you know what that means; there was not a well-bred young

horse in my time that had not his tail docked in that shameful way, just

as if the good God that made us did not know what we wanted and what

looked best.”

“I suppose it is fashion that makes them strap our heads up with those

horrid bits that I was tortured with in London,” said Ginger.

“Of course it is,” said he; “to my mind, fashion is one of the wickedest

things in the world. Now look, for instance, at the way they serve dogs,

cutting off their tails to make them look plucky, and shearing up their

pretty little ears to a point to make them both look sharp, forsooth. I

had a dear friend once, a brown terrier; 'Skye' they called her. She was

so fond of me that she never would sleep out of my stall; she made

her bed under the manger, and there she had a litter of five as pretty

little puppies as need be; none were drowned, for they were a valuable

kind, and how pleased she was with them! and when they got their eyes

open and crawled about, it was a real pretty sight; but one day the man

came and took them all away; I thought he might be afraid I should tread

upon them. But it was not so; in the evening poor Skye brought them back

again, one by one in her mouth; not the happy little things that they

were, but bleeding and crying pitifully; they had all had a piece of

their tails cut off, and the soft flap of their pretty little ears was

cut quite off. How their mother licked them, and how troubled she was,

poor thing! I never forgot it. They healed in time, and they forgot the

pain, but the nice soft flap, that of course was intended to protect the

delicate part of their ears from dust and injury, was gone forever. Why

don't they cut their own children's ears into points to make them look

sharp? Why don't they cut the end off their noses to make them look

plucky? One would be just as sensible as the other. What right have they

to torment and disfigure God's creatures?”

Sir Oliver, though he was so gentle, was a fiery old fellow, and what

he said was all so new to me, and so dreadful, that I found a bitter

feeling toward men rise up in my mind that I never had before. Of course

Ginger was very much excited; she flung up her head with flashing

eyes and distended nostrils, declaring that men were both brutes and

blockheads.

“Who talks about blockheads?” said Merrylegs, who just came up from

the old apple-tree, where he had been rubbing himself against the low

branch. “Who talks about blockheads? I believe that is a bad word.”

“Bad words were made for bad things,” said Ginger, and she told him what

Sir Oliver had said.

“It is all true,” said Merrylegs sadly, “and I've seen that about the

dogs over and over again where I lived first; but we won't talk about

it here. You know that master, and John and James are always good to

us, and talking against men in such a place as this doesn't seem fair

or grateful, and you know there are good masters and good grooms beside

ours, though of course ours are the best.”

This wise speech of good little Merrylegs, which we knew was quite true,

cooled us all down, especially Sir Oliver, who was dearly fond of his

master; and to turn the subject I said, “Can any one tell me the use of

blinkers?”

“No!” said Sir Oliver shortly, “because they are no use.”

“They are supposed,” said Justice, the roan cob, in his calm way, “to

prevent horses from shying and starting, and getting so frightened as to

cause accidents.”

“Then what is the reason they do not put them on riding horses;

especially on ladies' horses?” said I.

“There is no reason at all,” said he quietly, “except the fashion; they

say that a horse would be so frightened to see the wheels of his own

cart or carriage coming behind him that he would be sure to run away,

although of course when he is ridden he sees them all about him if the

streets are crowded. I admit they do sometimes come too close to be

pleasant, but we don't run away; we are used to it, and understand it,

and if we never had blinkers put on we should never want them; we should

see what was there, and know what was what, and be much less frightened

than by only seeing bits of things that we can't understand. Of course

there may be some nervous horses who have been hurt or frightened when

they were young, who may be the better for them; but as I never was

nervous, I can't judge.”

“I consider,” said Sir Oliver, “that blinkers are dangerous things in

the night; we horses can see much better in the dark than men can, and

many an accident would never have happened if horses might have had the

full use of their eyes. Some years ago, I remember, there was a hearse

with two horses returning one dark night, and just by Farmer Sparrow's

house, where the pond is close to the road, the wheels went too near the

edge, and the hearse was overturned into the water; both the horses were

drowned, and the driver hardly escaped. Of course after this accident

a stout white rail was put up that might be easily seen, but if those

horses had not been partly blinded, they would of themselves have kept

further from the edge, and no accident would have happened. When our

master's carriage was overturned, before you came here, it was said that

if the lamp on the left side had not gone out, John would have seen the

great hole that the road-makers had left; and so he might, but if old

Colin had not had blinkers on he would have seen it, lamp or no lamp,

for he was far too knowing an old horse to run into danger. As it was,

he was very much hurt, the carriage was broken, and how John escaped

nobody knew.”

“I should say,” said Ginger, curling her nostril, “that these men, who

are so wise, had better give orders that in the future all foals should

be born with their eyes set just in the middle of their foreheads,

instead of on the side; they always think they can improve upon nature

and mend what God has made.”

Things were getting rather sore again, when Merrylegs held up his

knowing little face and said, “I'll tell you a secret: I believe John

does not approve of blinkers; I heard him talking with master about it

one day. The master said that 'if horses had been used to them, it might

be dangerous in some cases to leave them off'; and John said he thought

it would be a good thing if all colts were broken in without blinkers,

as was the case in some foreign countries. So let us cheer up, and have

a run to the other end of the orchard; I believe the wind has blown down

some apples, and we might just as well eat them as the slugs.”

Merrylegs could not be resisted, so we broke off our long conversation,

and got up our spirits by munching some very sweet apples which lay

scattered on the grass.

11 Plain Speaking

The longer I lived at Birtwick the more proud and happy I felt at having

such a place. Our master and mistress were respected and beloved by all

who knew them; they were good and kind to everybody and everything; not

only men and women, but horses and donkeys, dogs and cats, cattle and

birds; there was no oppressed or ill-used creature that had not a friend

in them, and their servants took the same tone. If any of the village

children were known to treat any creature cruelly they soon heard about

it from the Hall.

The squire and Farmer Grey had worked together, as they said, for more

than twenty years to get check-reins on the cart-horses done away with,

and in our parts you seldom saw them; and sometimes, if mistress met

a heavily laden horse with his head strained up she would stop the

carriage and get out, and reason with the driver in her sweet serious

voice, and try to show him how foolish and cruel it was.

I don't think any man could withstand our mistress. I wish all ladies

were like her. Our master, too, used to come down very heavy sometimes.

I remember he was riding me toward home one morning when we saw a

powerful man driving toward us in a light pony chaise, with a beautiful

little bay pony, with slender legs and a high-bred sensitive head and

face. Just as he came to the park gates the little thing turned toward

them; the man, without word or warning, wrenched the creature's head

round with such a force and suddenness that he nearly threw it on its

haunches. Recovering itself it was going on, when he began to lash it

furiously. The pony plunged forward, but the strong, heavy hand held the

pretty creature back with force almost enough to break its jaw, while

the whip still cut into him. It was a dreadful sight to me, for I knew

what fearful pain it gave that delicate little mouth; but master gave me

the word, and we were up with him in a second.

“Sawyer,” he cried in a stern voice, “is that pony made of flesh and

blood?”

“Flesh and blood and temper,” he said; “he's too fond of his own will,

and that won't suit me.” He spoke as if he was in a strong passion. He

was a builder who had often been to the park on business.

“And do you think,” said master sternly, “that treatment like this will

make him fond of your will?”

“He had no business to make that turn; his road was straight on!” said

the man roughly.

“You have often driven that pony up to my place,” said master; “it only

shows the creature's memory and intelligence; how did he know that you

were not going there again? But that has little to do with it. I must

say, Mr. Sawyer, that a more unmanly, brutal treatment of a little

pony it was never my painful lot to witness, and by giving way to such

passion you injure your own character as much, nay more, than you injure

your horse; and remember, we shall all have to be judged according to

our works, whether they be toward man or toward beast.”

Master rode me home slowly, and I could tell by his voice how the thing

had grieved him. He was just as free to speak to gentlemen of his own

rank as to those below him; for another day, when we were out, we met

a Captain Langley, a friend of our master's; he was driving a splendid

pair of grays in a kind of break. After a little conversation the

captain said:

“What do you think of my new team, Mr. Douglas? You know, you are the

judge of horses in these parts, and I should like your opinion.”

The master backed me a little, so as to get a good view of them. “They

are an uncommonly handsome pair,” he said, “and if they are as good as

they look I am sure you need not wish for anything better; but I see

you still hold that pet scheme of yours for worrying your horses and

lessening their power.”

“What do you mean,” said the other, “the check-reins? Oh, ah! I know

that's a hobby of yours; well, the fact is, I like to see my horses hold

their heads up.”

“So do I,” said master, “as well as any man, but I don't like to

see them held up; that takes all the shine out of it. Now, you are a

military man, Langley, and no doubt like to see your regiment look well

on parade, 'heads up', and all that; but you would not take much credit

for your drill if all your men had their heads tied to a backboard! It

might not be much harm on parade, except to worry and fatigue them; but

how would it be in a bayonet charge against the enemy, when they want

the free use of every muscle, and all their strength thrown forward? I

would not give much for their chance of victory. And it is just the same

with horses: you fret and worry their tempers, and decrease their power;

you will not let them throw their weight against their work, and so

they have to do too much with their joints and muscles, and of course

it wears them up faster. You may depend upon it, horses were intended

to have their heads free, as free as men's are; and if we could act a

little more according to common sense, and a good deal less according

to fashion, we should find many things work easier; besides, you know as

well as I that if a horse makes a false step, he has much less chance

of recovering himself if his head and neck are fastened back. And now,”

said the master, laughing, “I have given my hobby a good trot out, can't

you make up your mind to mount him, too, captain? Your example would go

a long way.”

“I believe you are right in theory,” said the other, “and that's rather

a hard hit about the soldiers; but--well--I'll think about it,” and so

they parted.

12 A Stormy Day

One day late in the autumn my master had a long journey to go on

business. I was put into the dog-cart, and John went with his master. I

always liked to go in the dog-cart, it was so light and the high wheels

ran along so pleasantly. There had been a great deal of rain, and now

the wind was very high and blew the dry leaves across the road in a

shower. We went along merrily till we came to the toll-bar and the low

wooden bridge. The river banks were rather high, and the bridge, instead

of rising, went across just level, so that in the middle, if the river

was full, the water would be nearly up to the woodwork and planks; but

as there were good substantial rails on each side, people did not mind

it.

The man at the gate said the river was rising fast, and he feared it

would be a bad night. Many of the meadows were under water, and in one

low part of the road the water was halfway up to my knees; the bottom

was good, and master drove gently, so it was no matter.

When we got to the town of course I had a good bait, but as the master's

business engaged him a long time we did not start for home till rather

late in the afternoon. The wind was then much higher, and I heard the

master say to John that he had never been out in such a storm; and so I

thought, as we went along the skirts of a wood, where the great branches

were swaying about like twigs, and the rushing sound was terrible.

“I wish we were well out of this wood,” said my master.

“Yes, sir,” said John, “it would be rather awkward if one of these

branches came down upon us.”

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when there was a groan, and a

crack, and a splitting sound, and tearing, crashing down among the other

trees came an oak, torn up by the roots, and it fell right across the

road just before us. I will never say I was not frightened, for I was. I

stopped still, and I believe I trembled; of course I did not turn round

or run away; I was not brought up to that. John jumped out and was in a

moment at my head.

“That was a very near touch,” said my master. “What's to be done now?”

“Well, sir, we can't drive over that tree, nor yet get round it; there

will be nothing for it, but to go back to the four crossways, and that

will be a good six miles before we get round to the wooden bridge again;

it will make us late, but the horse is fresh.”

So back we went and round by the crossroads, but by the time we got to

the bridge it was very nearly dark; we could just see that the water was

over the middle of it; but as that happened sometimes when the floods

were out, master did not stop. We were going along at a good pace, but

the moment my feet touched the first part of the bridge I felt sure

there was something wrong. I dare not go forward, and I made a dead

stop. “Go on, Beauty,” said my master, and he gave me a touch with the

whip, but I dare not stir; he gave me a sharp cut; I jumped, but I dare

not go forward.

“There's something wrong, sir,” said John, and he sprang out of the

dog-cart and came to my head and looked all about. He tried to lead me

forward. “Come on, Beauty, what's the matter?” Of course I could not

tell him, but I knew very well that the bridge was not safe.

Just then the man at the toll-gate on the other side ran out of the

house, tossing a torch about like one mad.

“Hoy, hoy, hoy! halloo! stop!” he cried.

“What's the matter?” shouted my master.

“The bridge is broken in the middle, and part of it is carried away; if

you come on you'll be into the river.”

“Thank God!” said my master. “You Beauty!” said John, and took the

bridle and gently turned me round to the right-hand road by the river

side. The sun had set some time; the wind seemed to have lulled off

after that furious blast which tore up the tree. It grew darker and

darker, stiller and stiller. I trotted quietly along, the wheels hardly

making a sound on the soft road. For a good while neither master nor

John spoke, and then master began in a serious voice. I could not

understand much of what they said, but I found they thought, if I had

gone on as the master wanted me, most likely the bridge would have given

way under us, and horse, chaise, master, and man would have fallen into

the river; and as the current was flowing very strongly, and there was

no light and no help at hand, it was more than likely we should all have

been drowned. Master said, God had given men reason, by which they could

find out things for themselves; but he had given animals knowledge which

did not depend on reason, and which was much more prompt and perfect in

its way, and by which they had often saved the lives of men. John had

many stories to tell of dogs and horses, and the wonderful things they

had done; he thought people did not value their animals half enough nor

make friends of them as they ought to do. I am sure he makes friends of

them if ever a man did.

At last we came to the park gates and found the gardener looking out for

us. He said that mistress had been in a dreadful way ever since dark,

fearing some accident had happened, and that she had sent James off on

Justice, the roan cob, toward the wooden bridge to make inquiry after

us.

We saw a light at the hall-door and at the upper windows, and as we came

up mistress ran out, saying, “Are you really safe, my dear? Oh! I

have been so anxious, fancying all sorts of things. Have you had no

accident?”

“No, my dear; but if your Black Beauty had not been wiser than we were

we should all have been carried down the river at the wooden bridge.”

I heard no more, as they went into the house, and John took me to the

stable. Oh, what a good supper he gave me that night, a good bran mash

and some crushed beans with my oats, and such a thick bed of straw! and

I was glad of it, for I was tired.

13 The Devil's Trade Mark

One day when John and I had been out on some business of our master's,

and were returning gently on a long, straight road, at some distance we

saw a boy trying to leap a pony over a gate; the pony would not take the

leap, and the boy cut him with the whip, but he only turned off on one

side. He whipped him again, but the pony turned off on the other side.

Then the boy got off and gave him a hard thrashing, and knocked him

about the head; then he got up again and tried to make him leap the

gate, kicking him all the time shamefully, but still the pony refused.

When we were nearly at the spot the pony put down his head and threw up

his heels, and sent the boy neatly over into a broad quickset hedge, and

with the rein dangling from his head he set off home at a full gallop.

John laughed out quite loud. “Served him right,” he said.

“Oh, oh, oh!” cried the boy as he struggled about among the thorns; “I

say, come and help me out.”

“Thank ye,” said John, “I think you are quite in the right place, and

maybe a little scratching will teach you not to leap a pony over a gate

that is too high for him,” and so with that John rode off. “It may be,”

said he to himself, “that young fellow is a liar as well as a cruel one;

we'll just go home by Farmer Bushby's, Beauty, and then if anybody wants

to know you and I can tell 'em, ye see.” So we turned off to the right,

and soon came up to the stack-yard, and within sight of the house. The

farmer was hurrying out into the road, and his wife was standing at the

gate, looking very frightened.

“Have you seen my boy?” said Mr. Bushby as we came up; “he went out an

hour ago on my black pony, and the creature is just come back without a

rider.”

“I should think, sir,” said John, “he had better be without a rider,

unless he can be ridden properly.”

“What do you mean?” said the farmer.

“Well, sir, I saw your son whipping, and kicking, and knocking that good

little pony about shamefully because he would not leap a gate that was

too high for him. The pony behaved well, sir, and showed no vice; but at

last he just threw up his heels and tipped the young gentleman into the

thorn hedge. He wanted me to help him out, but I hope you will excuse

me, sir, I did not feel inclined to do so. There's no bones broken, sir;

he'll only get a few scratches. I love horses, and it riles me to see

them badly used; it is a bad plan to aggravate an animal till he uses

his heels; the first time is not always the last.”

During this time the mother began to cry, “Oh, my poor Bill, I must go

and meet him; he must be hurt.”

“You had better go into the house, wife,” said the farmer; “Bill wants a

lesson about this, and I must see that he gets it; this is not the first

time, nor the second, that he has ill-used that pony, and I shall stop

it. I am much obliged to you, Manly. Good-evening.”

So we went on, John chuckling all the way home; then he told James about

it, who laughed and said, “Serve him right. I knew that boy at school;

he took great airs on himself because he was a farmer's son; he used to

swagger about and bully the little boys. Of course, we elder ones would

not have any of that nonsense, and let him know that in the school and

the playground farmers' sons and laborers' sons were all alike. I well

remember one day, just before afternoon school, I found him at the large

window catching flies and pulling off their wings. He did not see me and

I gave him a box on the ears that laid him sprawling on the floor. Well,

angry as I was, I was almost frightened, he roared and bellowed in such

a style. The boys rushed in from the playground, and the master ran in

from the road to see who was being murdered. Of course I said fair and

square at once what I had done, and why; then I showed the master the

flies, some crushed and some crawling about helpless, and I showed him

the wings on the window sill. I never saw him so angry before; but as

Bill was still howling and whining, like the coward that he was, he did

not give him any more punishment of that kind, but set him up on a stool

for the rest of the afternoon, and said that he should not go out to

play for that week. Then he talked to all the boys very seriously about

cruelty, and said how hard-hearted and cowardly it was to hurt the

weak and the helpless; but what stuck in my mind was this, he said that

cruelty was the devil's own trade-mark, and if we saw any one who took

pleasure in cruelty we might know who he belonged to, for the devil was

a murderer from the beginning, and a tormentor to the end. On the other

hand, where we saw people who loved their neighbors, and were kind to

man and beast, we might know that was God's mark.”

“Your master never taught you a truer thing,” said John; “there is no

religion without love, and people may talk as much as they like about

their religion, but if it does not teach them to be good and kind to man

and beast it is all a sham--all a sham, James, and it won't stand when

things come to be turned inside out.”

14 James Howard

Early one morning in December John had just led me into my box after my

daily exercise, and was strapping my cloth on and James was coming in

from the corn chamber with some oats, when the master came into the

stable. He looked rather serious, and held an open letter in his hand.

John fastened the door of my box, touched his cap, and waited for

orders.

“Good-morning, John,” said the master. “I want to know if you have any

complaint to make of James.”

“Complaint, sir? No, sir.”

“Is he industrious at his work and respectful to you?”

“Yes, sir, always.”

“You never find he slights his work when your back is turned?”

“Never, sir.”

“That's well; but I must put another question. Have you no reason to

suspect, when he goes out with the horses to exercise them or to take a

message, that he stops about talking to his acquaintances, or goes into

houses where he has no business, leaving the horses outside?”

“No, sir, certainly not; and if anybody has been saying that about

James, I don't believe it, and I don't mean to believe it unless I have

it fairly proved before witnesses; it's not for me to say who has been

trying to take away James' character, but I will say this, sir, that a

steadier, pleasanter, honester, smarter young fellow I never had in this

stable. I can trust his word and I can trust his work; he is gentle and

clever with the horses, and I would rather have them in charge with him

than with half the young fellows I know of in laced hats and liveries;

and whoever wants a character of James Howard,” said John, with a

decided jerk of his head, “let them come to John Manly.”

The master stood all this time grave and attentive, but as John finished

his speech a broad smile spread over his face, and looking kindly

across at James, who all this time had stood still at the door, he said,

“James, my lad, set down the oats and come here; I am very glad to find

that John's opinion of your character agrees so exactly with my own.

John is a cautious man,” he said, with a droll smile, “and it is not

always easy to get his opinion about people, so I thought if I beat the

bush on this side the birds would fly out, and I should learn what I

wanted to know quickly; so now we will come to business. I have a letter

from my brother-in-law, Sir Clifford Williams, of Clifford Hall.

He wants me to find him a trustworthy young groom, about twenty or

twenty-one, who knows his business. His old coachman, who has lived with

him thirty years, is getting feeble, and he wants a man to work with him

and get into his ways, who would be able, when the old man was pensioned

off, to step into his place. He would have eighteen shillings a week at

first, a stable suit, a driving suit, a bedroom over the coachhouse, and

a boy under him. Sir Clifford is a good master, and if you could get the

place it would be a good start for you. I don't want to part with you,

and if you left us I know John would lose his right hand.”

“That I should, sir,” said John, “but I would not stand in his light for

the world.”

“How old are you, James?” said master.

“Nineteen next May, sir.”

“That's young; what do you think, John?”

“Well, sir, it is young; but he is as steady as a man, and is strong,

and well grown, and though he has not had much experience in driving, he

has a light firm hand and a quick eye, and he is very careful, and I am

quite sure no horse of his will be ruined for want of having his feet

and shoes looked after.”

“Your word will go the furthest, John,” said the master, “for Sir

Clifford adds in a postscript, 'If I could find a man trained by your

John I should like him better than any other;' so, James, lad, think it

over, talk to your mother at dinner-time, and then let me know what you

wish.”

In a few days after this conversation it was fully settled that James

should go to Clifford Hall, in a month or six weeks, as it suited his

master, and in the meantime he was to get all the practice in driving

that could be given to him. I never knew the carriage to go out so often

before; when the mistress did not go out the master drove himself in the

two-wheeled chaise; but now, whether it was master or the young ladies,

or only an errand, Ginger and I were put in the carriage and James drove

us. At the first John rode with him on the box, telling him this and

that, and after that James drove alone.

Then it was wonderful what a number of places the master would go to in

the city on Saturday, and what queer streets we were driven through. He

was sure to go to the railway station just as the train was coming in,

and cabs and carriages, carts and omnibuses were all trying to get over

the bridge together; that bridge wanted good horses and good drivers

when the railway bell was ringing, for it was narrow, and there was a

very sharp turn up to the station, where it would not have been at all

difficult for people to run into each other, if they did not look sharp

and keep their wits about them.

15 The Old Hostler

After this it was decided by my master and mistress to pay a visit to

some friends who lived about forty-six miles from our home, and James

was to drive them. The first day we traveled thirty-two miles.

There were some long, heavy hills, but James drove so carefully and

thoughtfully that we were not at all harassed. He never forgot to put on

the brake as we went downhill, nor to take it off at the right place. He

kept our feet on the smoothest part of the road, and if the uphill was

very long, he set the carriage wheels a little across the road, so as

not to run back, and gave us a breathing. All these little things help a

horse very much, particularly if he gets kind words into the bargain.

We stopped once or twice on the road, and just as the sun was going down

we reached the town where we were to spend the night. We stopped at the

principal hotel, which was in the market-place; it was a very large one;

we drove under an archway into a long yard, at the further end of which

were the stables and coachhouses. Two hostlers came to take us out. The

head hostler was a pleasant, active little man, with a crooked leg,

and a yellow striped waistcoat. I never saw a man unbuckle harness so

quickly as he did, and with a pat and a good word he led me to a long

stable, with six or eight stalls in it, and two or three horses. The

other man brought Ginger; James stood by while we were rubbed down and

cleaned.

I never was cleaned so lightly and quickly as by that little old man.

When he had done James stepped up and felt me over, as if he thought I

could not be thoroughly done, but he found my coat as clean and smooth

as silk.

“Well,” he said, “I thought I was pretty quick, and our John quicker

still, but you do beat all I ever saw for being quick and thorough at

the same time.”

“Practice makes perfect,” said the crooked little hostler, “and 'twould

be a pity if it didn't; forty years' practice, and not perfect! ha, ha!

that would be a pity; and as to being quick, why, bless you! that is

only a matter of habit; if you get into the habit of being quick it is

just as easy as being slow; easier, I should say; in fact it don't agree

with my health to be hulking about over a job twice as long as it need

take. Bless you! I couldn't whistle if I crawled over my work as some

folks do! You see, I have been about horses ever since I was twelve

years old, in hunting stables, and racing stables; and being small, ye

see, I was jockey for several years; but at the Goodwood, ye see, the

turf was very slippery and my poor Larkspur got a fall, and I broke my

knee, and so of course I was of no more use there. But I could not live

without horses, of course I couldn't, so I took to the hotels. And I

can tell ye it is a downright pleasure to handle an animal like this,

well-bred, well-mannered, well-cared-for; bless ye! I can tell how a

horse is treated. Give me the handling of a horse for twenty minutes,

and I'll tell you what sort of a groom he has had. Look at this one,

pleasant, quiet, turns about just as you want him, holds up his feet to

be cleaned out, or anything else you please to wish; then you'll find

another fidgety, fretty, won't move the right way, or starts across the

stall, tosses up his head as soon as you come near him, lays his ears,

and seems afraid of you; or else squares about at you with his heels.

Poor things! I know what sort of treatment they have had. If they are

timid it makes them start or shy; if they are high-mettled it makes them

vicious or dangerous; their tempers are mostly made when they are young.

Bless you! they are like children, train 'em up in the way they should

go, as the good book says, and when they are old they will not depart

from it, if they have a chance.”

“I like to hear you talk,” said James, “that's the way we lay it down at

home, at our master's.”

“Who is your master, young man? if it be a proper question. I should

judge he is a good one, from what I see.”

“He is Squire Gordon, of Birtwick Park, the other side the Beacon

Hills,” said James.

“Ah! so, so, I have heard tell of him; fine judge of horses, ain't he?

the best rider in the county.”

“I believe he is,” said James, “but he rides very little now, since the

poor young master was killed.”

“Ah! poor gentleman; I read all about it in the paper at the time. A

fine horse killed, too, wasn't there?”

“Yes,” said James; “he was a splendid creature, brother to this one, and

just like him.”

“Pity! pity!” said the old man; “'twas a bad place to leap, if I

remember; a thin fence at top, a steep bank down to the stream, wasn't

it? No chance for a horse to see where he is going. Now, I am for bold

riding as much as any man, but still there are some leaps that only

a very knowing old huntsman has any right to take. A man's life and a

horse's life are worth more than a fox's tail; at least, I should say

they ought to be.”

During this time the other man had finished Ginger and had brought our

corn, and James and the old man left the stable together.

16 The Fire

Later on in the evening a traveler's horse was brought in by the second

hostler, and while he was cleaning him a young man with a pipe in his

mouth lounged into the stable to gossip.

“I say, Towler,” said the hostler, “just run up the ladder into the loft

and put some hay down into this horse's rack, will you? only lay down

your pipe.”

“All right,” said the other, and went up through the trapdoor; and I

heard him step across the floor overhead and put down the hay. James

came in to look at us the last thing, and then the door was locked.

I cannot say how long I had slept, nor what time in the night it was,

but I woke up very uncomfortable, though I hardly knew why. I got up;

the air seemed all thick and choking. I heard Ginger coughing and one

of the other horses seemed very restless; it was quite dark, and I could

see nothing, but the stable seemed full of smoke, and I hardly knew how

to breathe.

The trapdoor had been left open, and I thought that was the place it

came through. I listened, and heard a soft rushing sort of noise and a

low crackling and snapping. I did not know what it was, but there was

something in the sound so strange that it made me tremble all over. The

other horses were all awake; some were pulling at their halters, others

stamping.

At last I heard steps outside, and the hostler who had put up the

traveler's horse burst into the stable with a lantern, and began to

untie the horses, and try to lead them out; but he seemed in such a

hurry and so frightened himself that he frightened me still more. The

first horse would not go with him; he tried the second and third, and

they too would not stir. He came to me next and tried to drag me out of

the stall by force; of course that was no use. He tried us all by turns

and then left the stable.

No doubt we were very foolish, but danger seemed to be all round, and

there was nobody we knew to trust in, and all was strange and uncertain.

The fresh air that had come in through the open door made it easier to

breathe, but the rushing sound overhead grew louder, and as I looked

upward through the bars of my empty rack I saw a red light flickering

on the wall. Then I heard a cry of “Fire!” outside, and the old hostler

quietly and quickly came in; he got one horse out, and went to another,

but the flames were playing round the trapdoor, and the roaring overhead

was dreadful.

The next thing I heard was James' voice, quiet and cheery, as it always

was.

“Come, my beauties, it is time for us to be off, so wake up and come

along.” I stood nearest the door, so he came to me first, patting me as

he came in.

“Come, Beauty, on with your bridle, my boy, we'll soon be out of this

smother.” It was on in no time; then he took the scarf off his neck, and

tied it lightly over my eyes, and patting and coaxing he led me out

of the stable. Safe in the yard, he slipped the scarf off my eyes, and

shouted, “Here somebody! take this horse while I go back for the other.”

A tall, broad man stepped forward and took me, and James darted back

into the stable. I set up a shrill whinny as I saw him go. Ginger told

me afterward that whinny was the best thing I could have done for her,

for had she not heard me outside she would never have had courage to

come out.

There was much confusion in the yard; the horses being got out of other

stables, and the carriages and gigs being pulled out of houses and

sheds, lest the flames should spread further. On the other side the yard

windows were thrown up, and people were shouting all sorts of things;

but I kept my eye fixed on the stable door, where the smoke poured out

thicker than ever, and I could see flashes of red light; presently I

heard above all the stir and din a loud, clear voice, which I knew was

master's:

“James Howard! James Howard! Are you there?” There was no answer, but I

heard a crash of something falling in the stable, and the next moment

I gave a loud, joyful neigh, for I saw James coming through the smoke

leading Ginger with him; she was coughing violently, and he was not able

to speak.

“My brave lad!” said master, laying his hand on his shoulder, “are you

hurt?”

James shook his head, for he could not yet speak.

“Ay,” said the big man who held me; “he is a brave lad, and no mistake.”

“And now,” said master, “when you have got your breath, James, we'll get

out of this place as quickly as we can,” and we were moving toward the

entry, when from the market-place there came a sound of galloping feet

and loud rumbling wheels.

“'Tis the fire-engine! the fire-engine!” shouted two or three voices,

“stand back, make way!” and clattering and thundering over the stones

two horses dashed into the yard with a heavy engine behind them. The

firemen leaped to the ground; there was no need to ask where the fire

was--it was rolling up in a great blaze from the roof.

We got out as fast as we could into the broad quiet market-place; the

stars were shining, and except the noise behind us, all was still.

Master led the way to a large hotel on the other side, and as soon as

the hostler came, he said, “James, I must now hasten to your mistress;

I trust the horses entirely to you, order whatever you think is needed,”

and with that he was gone. The master did not run, but I never saw

mortal man walk so fast as he did that night.

There was a dreadful sound before we got into our stalls--the shrieks of

those poor horses that were left burning to death in the stable--it was

very terrible! and made both Ginger and me feel very bad. We, however,

were taken in and well done by.

The next morning the master came to see how we were and to speak to

James. I did not hear much, for the hostler was rubbing me down, but

I could see that James looked very happy, and I thought the master was

proud of him. Our mistress had been so much alarmed in the night that

the journey was put off till the afternoon, so James had the morning

on hand, and went first to the inn to see about our harness and the

carriage, and then to hear more about the fire. When he came back we

heard him tell the hostler about it. At first no one could guess how the

fire had been caused, but at last a man said he saw Dick Towler go into

the stable with a pipe in his mouth, and when he came out he had not

one, and went to the tap for another. Then the under hostler said he had

asked Dick to go up the ladder to put down some hay, but told him to lay

down his pipe first. Dick denied taking the pipe with him, but no one

believed him. I remember our John Manly's rule, never to allow a pipe in

the stable, and thought it ought to be the rule everywhere.

James said the roof and floor had all fallen in, and that only the black

walls were standing; the two poor horses that could not be got out were

buried under the burnt rafters and tiles.

17 John Manly's Talk

The rest of our journey was very easy, and a little after sunset we

reached the house of my master's friend. We were taken into a clean,

snug stable; there was a kind coachman, who made us very comfortable,

and who seemed to think a good deal of James when he heard about the

fire.

“There is one thing quite clear, young man,” he said, “your horses know

who they can trust; it is one of the hardest things in the world to get

horses out of a stable when there is either fire or flood. I don't know

why they won't come out, but they won't--not one in twenty.”

We stopped two or three days at this place and then returned home. All

went well on the journey; we were glad to be in our own stable again,

and John was equally glad to see us.

Before he and James left us for the night James said, “I wonder who is

coming in my place.”

“Little Joe Green at the lodge,” said John.

“Little Joe Green! why, he's a child!”

“He is fourteen and a half,” said John.

“But he is such a little chap!”

“Yes, he is small, but he is quick and willing, and kind-hearted, too,

and then he wishes very much to come, and his father would like it;

and I know the master would like to give him the chance. He said if I

thought he would not do he would look out for a bigger boy; but I said I

was quite agreeable to try him for six weeks.”

“Six weeks!” said James; “why, it will be six months before he can be of

much use! It will make you a deal of work, John.”

“Well,” said John with a laugh, “work and I are very good friends; I

never was afraid of work yet.”

“You are a very good man,” said James. “I wish I may ever be like you.”

“I don't often speak of myself,” said John, “but as you are going away

from us out into the world to shift for yourself I'll just tell you how

I look on these things. I was just as old as Joseph when my father and

mother died of the fever within ten days of each other, and left me and

my cripple sister Nelly alone in the world, without a relation that we

could look to for help. I was a farmer's boy, not earning enough to keep

myself, much less both of us, and she must have gone to the workhouse

but for our mistress (Nelly calls her her angel, and she has good right

to do so). She went and hired a room for her with old Widow Mallet, and

she gave her knitting and needlework when she was able to do it; and

when she was ill she sent her dinners and many nice, comfortable things,

and was like a mother to her. Then the master he took me into the stable

under old Norman, the coachman that was then. I had my food at the house

and my bed in the loft, and a suit of clothes, and three shillings a

week, so that I could help Nelly. Then there was Norman; he might have

turned round and said at his age he could not be troubled with a raw boy

from the plow-tail, but he was like a father to me, and took no end of

pains with me. When the old man died some years after I stepped into his

place, and now of course I have top wages, and can lay by for a rainy

day or a sunny day, as it may happen, and Nelly is as happy as a bird.

So you see, James, I am not the man that should turn up his nose at a

little boy and vex a good, kind master. No, no! I shall miss you very

much, James, but we shall pull through, and there's nothing like doing a

kindness when 'tis put in your way, and I am glad I can do it.”

“Then,” said James, “you don't hold with that saying, 'Everybody look

after himself, and take care of number one'?”

“No, indeed,” said John, “where should I and Nelly have been if master

and mistress and old Norman had only taken care of number one? Why,

she in the workhouse and I hoeing turnips! Where would Black Beauty and

Ginger have been if you had only thought of number one? why, roasted to

death! No, Jim, no! that is a selfish, heathenish saying, whoever uses

it; and any man who thinks he has nothing to do but take care of number

one, why, it's a pity but what he had been drowned like a puppy or a

kitten, before he got his eyes open; that's what I think,” said John,

with a very decided jerk of his head.

James laughed at this; but there was a thickness in his voice when he

said, “You have been my best friend except my mother; I hope you won't

forget me.”

“No, lad, no!” said John, “and if ever I can do you a good turn I hope

you won't forget me.”

The next day Joe came to the stables to learn all he could before James

left. He learned to sweep the stable, to bring in the straw and hay; he

began to clean the harness, and helped to wash the carriage. As he was

quite too short to do anything in the way of grooming Ginger and me,

James taught him upon Merrylegs, for he was to have full charge of

him, under John. He was a nice little bright fellow, and always came

whistling to his work.

Merrylegs was a good deal put out at being “mauled about,” as he said,

“by a boy who knew nothing;” but toward the end of the second week he

told me confidentially that he thought the boy would turn out well.

At last the day came when James had to leave us; cheerful as he always

was, he looked quite down-hearted that morning.

“You see,” he said to John, “I am leaving a great deal behind; my mother

and Betsy, and you, and a good master and mistress, and then the horses,

and my old Merrylegs. At the new place there will not be a soul that I

shall know. If it were not that I shall get a higher place, and be able

to help my mother better, I don't think I should have made up my mind to

it; it is a real pinch, John.”

“Ay, James, lad, so it is; but I should not think much of you if you

could leave your home for the first time and not feel it. Cheer up,

you'll make friends there; and if you get on well, as I am sure you

will, it will be a fine thing for your mother, and she will be proud

enough that you have got into such a good place as that.”

So John cheered him up, but every one was sorry to lose James; as for

Merrylegs, he pined after him for several days, and went quite off his

appetite. So John took him out several mornings with a leading rein,

when he exercised me, and, trotting and galloping by my side, got up the

little fellow's spirits again, and he was soon all right.

Joe's father would often come in and give a little help, as he

understood the work; and Joe took a great deal of pains to learn, and

John was quite encouraged about him.

18 Going for the Doctor

One night, a few days after James had left, I had eaten my hay and was

lying down in my straw fast asleep, when I was suddenly roused by the

stable bell ringing very loud. I heard the door of John's house open,

and his feet running up to the hall. He was back again in no time; he

unlocked the stable door, and came in, calling out, “Wake up, Beauty!

You must go well now, if ever you did;” and almost before I could think

he had got the saddle on my back and the bridle on my head. He just

ran round for his coat, and then took me at a quick trot up to the hall

door. The squire stood there, with a lamp in his hand.

“Now, John,” he said, “ride for your life--that is, for your mistress'

life; there is not a moment to lose. Give this note to Dr. White; give

your horse a rest at the inn, and be back as soon as you can.”

John said, “Yes, sir,” and was on my back in a minute. The gardener who

lived at the lodge had heard the bell ring, and was ready with the gate

open, and away we went through the park, and through the village, and

down the hill till we came to the toll-gate. John called very loud and

thumped upon the door; the man was soon out and flung open the gate.

“Now,” said John, “do you keep the gate open for the doctor; here's the

money,” and off he went again.

There was before us a long piece of level road by the river side; John

said to me, “Now, Beauty, do your best,” and so I did; I wanted no whip

nor spur, and for two miles I galloped as fast as I could lay my feet to

the ground; I don't believe that my old grandfather, who won the race

at Newmarket, could have gone faster. When we came to the bridge John

pulled me up a little and patted my neck. “Well done, Beauty! good old

fellow,” he said. He would have let me go slower, but my spirit was up,

and I was off again as fast as before. The air was frosty, the moon was

bright; it was very pleasant. We came through a village, then through

a dark wood, then uphill, then downhill, till after eight miles' run we

came to the town, through the streets and into the market-place. It was

all quite still except the clatter of my feet on the stones--everybody

was asleep. The church clock struck three as we drew up at Dr. White's

door. John rang the bell twice, and then knocked at the door like

thunder. A window was thrown up, and Dr. White, in his nightcap, put his

head out and said, “What do you want?”

“Mrs. Gordon is very ill, sir; master wants you to go at once; he thinks

she will die if you cannot get there. Here is a note.”

“Wait,” he said, “I will come.”

He shut the window, and was soon at the door.

“The worst of it is,” he said, “that my horse has been out all day and

is quite done up; my son has just been sent for, and he has taken the

other. What is to be done? Can I have your horse?”

“He has come at a gallop nearly all the way, sir, and I was to give him

a rest here; but I think my master would not be against it, if you think

fit, sir.”

“All right,” he said; “I will soon be ready.”

John stood by me and stroked my neck; I was very hot. The doctor came

out with his riding-whip.

“You need not take that, sir,” said John; “Black Beauty will go till he

drops. Take care of him, sir, if you can; I should not like any harm to

come to him.”

“No, no, John,” said the doctor, “I hope not,” and in a minute we had

left John far behind.

I will not tell about our way back. The doctor was a heavier man than

John, and not so good a rider; however, I did my very best. The man at

the toll-gate had it open. When we came to the hill the doctor drew me

up. “Now, my good fellow,” he said, “take some breath.” I was glad he

did, for I was nearly spent, but that breathing helped me on, and soon

we were in the park. Joe was at the lodge gate; my master was at the

hall door, for he had heard us coming. He spoke not a word; the doctor

went into the house with him, and Joe led me to the stable. I was glad

to get home; my legs shook under me, and I could only stand and pant. I

had not a dry hair on my body, the water ran down my legs, and I steamed

all over, Joe used to say, like a pot on the fire. Poor Joe! he was

young and small, and as yet he knew very little, and his father, who

would have helped him, had been sent to the next village; but I am sure

he did the very best he knew. He rubbed my legs and my chest, but he did

not put my warm cloth on me; he thought I was so hot I should not like

it. Then he gave me a pailful of water to drink; it was cold and very

good, and I drank it all; then he gave me some hay and some corn, and

thinking he had done right, he went away. Soon I began to shake and

tremble, and turned deadly cold; my legs ached, my loins ached, and my

chest ached, and I felt sore all over. Oh! how I wished for my warm,

thick cloth, as I stood and trembled. I wished for John, but he had

eight miles to walk, so I lay down in my straw and tried to go to sleep.

After a long while I heard John at the door; I gave a low moan, for I

was in great pain. He was at my side in a moment, stooping down by me. I

could not tell him how I felt, but he seemed to know it all; he covered

me up with two or three warm cloths, and then ran to the house for some

hot water; he made me some warm gruel, which I drank, and then I think I

went to sleep.

John seemed to be very much put out. I heard him say to himself over and

over again, “Stupid boy! stupid boy! no cloth put on, and I dare say the

water was cold, too; boys are no good;” but Joe was a good boy, after

all.

I was now very ill; a strong inflammation had attacked my lungs, and I

could not draw my breath without pain. John nursed me night and day; he

would get up two or three times in the night to come to me. My master,

too, often came to see me. “My poor Beauty,” he said one day, “my good

horse, you saved your mistress' life, Beauty; yes, you saved her life.”

I was very glad to hear that, for it seems the doctor had said if we had

been a little longer it would have been too late. John told my master he

never saw a horse go so fast in his life. It seemed as if the horse knew

what was the matter. Of course I did, though John thought not; at least

I knew as much as this--that John and I must go at the top of our speed,

and that it was for the sake of the mistress.

19 Only Ignorance

I do not know how long I was ill. Mr. Bond, the horse-doctor, came every

day. One day he bled me; John held a pail for the blood. I felt very

faint after it and thought I should die, and I believe they all thought

so too.

Ginger and Merrylegs had been moved into the other stable, so that I

might be quiet, for the fever made me very quick of hearing; any little

noise seemed quite loud, and I could tell every one's footstep going to

and from the house. I knew all that was going on. One night John had to

give me a draught; Thomas Green came in to help him. After I had taken

it and John had made me as comfortable as he could, he said he should

stay half an hour to see how the medicine settled. Thomas said he

would stay with him, so they went and sat down on a bench that had been

brought into Merrylegs' stall, and put down the lantern at their feet,

that I might not be disturbed with the light.

For awhile both men sat silent, and then Tom Green said in a low voice:

“I wish, John, you'd say a bit of a kind word to Joe. The boy is quite

broken-hearted; he can't eat his meals, and he can't smile. He says he

knows it was all his fault, though he is sure he did the best he knew,

and he says if Beauty dies no one will ever speak to him again. It goes

to my heart to hear him. I think you might give him just a word; he is

not a bad boy.”

After a short pause John said slowly, “You must not be too hard upon me,

Tom. I know he meant no harm, I never said he did; I know he is not a

bad boy. But you see, I am sore myself; that horse is the pride of my

heart, to say nothing of his being such a favorite with the master and

mistress; and to think that his life may be flung away in this manner is

more than I can bear. But if you think I am hard on the boy I will try

to give him a good word to-morrow--that is, I mean if Beauty is better.”

“Well, John, thank you. I knew you did not wish to be too hard, and I am

glad you see it was only ignorance.”

John's voice almost startled me as he answered:

“Only ignorance! only ignorance! how can you talk about only ignorance?

Don't you know that it is the worst thing in the world, next to

wickedness?--and which does the most mischief heaven only knows. If

people can say, 'Oh! I did not know, I did not mean any harm,' they

think it is all right. I suppose Martha Mulwash did not mean to kill

that baby when she dosed it with Dalby and soothing syrups; but she did

kill it, and was tried for manslaughter.”

“And serve her right, too,” said Tom. “A woman should not undertake to

nurse a tender little child without knowing what is good and what is bad

for it.”

“Bill Starkey,” continued John, “did not mean to frighten his brother

into fits when he dressed up like a ghost and ran after him in the

moonlight; but he did; and that bright, handsome little fellow, that

might have been the pride of any mother's heart is just no better than

an idiot, and never will be, if he lives to be eighty years old. You

were a good deal cut up yourself, Tom, two weeks ago, when those young

ladies left your hothouse door open, with a frosty east wind blowing

right in; you said it killed a good many of your plants.”

“A good many!” said Tom; “there was not one of the tender cuttings that

was not nipped off. I shall have to strike all over again, and the worst

of it is that I don't know where to go to get fresh ones. I was nearly

mad when I came in and saw what was done.”

“And yet,” said John, “I am sure the young ladies did not mean it; it

was only ignorance.”

I heard no more of this conversation, for the medicine did well and sent

me to sleep, and in the morning I felt much better; but I often thought

of John's words when I came to know more of the world.

20 Joe Green

Joe Green went on very well; he learned quickly, and was so attentive

and careful that John began to trust him in many things; but as I have

said, he was small of his age, and it was seldom that he was allowed to

exercise either Ginger or me; but it so happened one morning that John

was out with Justice in the luggage cart, and the master wanted a

note to be taken immediately to a gentleman's house, about three miles

distant, and sent his orders for Joe to saddle me and take it, adding

the caution that he was to ride steadily.

The note was delivered, and we were quietly returning when we came

to the brick-field. Here we saw a cart heavily laden with bricks; the

wheels had stuck fast in the stiff mud of some deep ruts, and the carter

was shouting and flogging the two horses unmercifully. Joe pulled up. It

was a sad sight. There were the two horses straining and struggling with

all their might to drag the cart out, but they could not move it; the

sweat streamed from their legs and flanks, their sides heaved, and every

muscle was strained, while the man, fiercely pulling at the head of the

fore horse, swore and lashed most brutally.

“Hold hard,” said Joe; “don't go on flogging the horses like that; the

wheels are so stuck that they cannot move the cart.”

The man took no heed, but went on lashing.

“Stop! pray stop!” said Joe. “I'll help you to lighten the cart; they

can't move it now.”

“Mind your own business, you impudent young rascal, and I'll mind mine!”

The man was in a towering passion and the worse for drink, and laid on

the whip again. Joe turned my head, and the next moment we were going at

a round gallop toward the house of the master brick-maker. I cannot say

if John would have approved of our pace, but Joe and I were both of one

mind, and so angry that we could not have gone slower.

The house stood close by the roadside. Joe knocked at the door, and

shouted, “Halloo! Is Mr. Clay at home?” The door was opened, and Mr.

Clay himself came out.

“Halloo, young man! You seem in a hurry; any orders from the squire this

morning?”

“No, Mr. Clay, but there's a fellow in your brick-yard flogging two

horses to death. I told him to stop, and he wouldn't; I said I'd help

him to lighten the cart, and he wouldn't; so I have come to tell you.

Pray, sir, go.” Joe's voice shook with excitement.

“Thank ye, my lad,” said the man, running in for his hat; then pausing

for a moment, “Will you give evidence of what you saw if I should bring

the fellow up before a magistrate?”

“That I will,” said Joe, “and glad too.” The man was gone, and we were

on our way home at a smart trot.

“Why, what's the matter with you, Joe? You look angry all over,” said

John, as the boy flung himself from the saddle.

“I am angry all over, I can tell you,” said the boy, and then in

hurried, excited words he told all that had happened. Joe was usually

such a quiet, gentle little fellow that it was wonderful to see him so

roused.

“Right, Joe! you did right, my boy, whether the fellow gets a summons or

not. Many folks would have ridden by and said it was not their

business to interfere. Now I say that with cruelty and oppression it is

everybody's business to interfere when they see it; you did right, my

boy.”

Joe was quite calm by this time, and proud that John approved of him,

and cleaned out my feet and rubbed me down with a firmer hand than

usual.

They were just going home to dinner when the footman came down to the

stable to say that Joe was wanted directly in master's private room;

there was a man brought up for ill-using horses, and Joe's evidence was

wanted. The boy flushed up to his forehead, and his eyes sparkled. “They

shall have it,” said he.

“Put yourself a bit straight,” said John. Joe gave a pull at his necktie

and a twitch at his jacket, and was off in a moment. Our master being

one of the county magistrates, cases were often brought to him to

settle, or say what should be done. In the stable we heard no more for

some time, as it was the men's dinner hour, but when Joe came next into

the stable I saw he was in high spirits; he gave me a good-natured slap,

and said, “We won't see such things done, will we, old fellow?” We heard

afterward that he had given his evidence so clearly, and the horses were

in such an exhausted state, bearing marks of such brutal usage, that the

carter was committed to take his trial, and might possibly be sentenced

to two or three months in prison.

It was wonderful what a change had come over Joe. John laughed, and said

he had grown an inch taller in that week, and I believe he had. He

was just as kind and gentle as before, but there was more purpose and

determination in all that he did--as if he had jumped at once from a boy

into a man.

21 The Parting

Now I had lived in this happy place three years, but sad changes were

about to come over us. We heard from time to time that our mistress was

ill. The doctor was often at the house, and the master looked grave and

anxious. Then we heard that she must leave her home at once, and go to

a warm country for two or three years. The news fell upon the household

like the tolling of a deathbell. Everybody was sorry; but the master

began directly to make arrangements for breaking up his establishment

and leaving England. We used to hear it talked about in our stable;

indeed, nothing else was talked about.

John went about his work silent and sad, and Joe scarcely whistled.

There was a great deal of coming and going; Ginger and I had full work.

The first of the party who went were Miss Jessie and Flora, with their

governess. They came to bid us good-by. They hugged poor Merrylegs

like an old friend, and so indeed he was. Then we heard what had been

arranged for us. Master had sold Ginger and me to his old friend,

the Earl of W----, for he thought we should have a good place there.

Merrylegs he had given to the vicar, who was wanting a pony for Mrs.

Blomefield, but it was on the condition that he should never be sold,

and that when he was past work he should be shot and buried.

Joe was engaged to take care of him and to help in the house, so I

thought that Merrylegs was well off. John had the offer of several good

places, but he said he should wait a little and look round.

The evening before they left the master came into the stable to give

some directions, and to give his horses the last pat. He seemed very

low-spirited; I knew that by his voice. I believe we horses can tell

more by the voice than many men can.

“Have you decided what to do, John?” he said. “I find you have not

accepted either of those offers.”

“No, sir; I have made up my mind that if I could get a situation with

some first-rate colt-breaker and horse-trainer, it would be the right

thing for me. Many young animals are frightened and spoiled by wrong

treatment, which need not be if the right man took them in hand. I

always get on well with horses, and if I could help some of them to a

fair start I should feel as if I was doing some good. What do you think

of it, sir?”

“I don't know a man anywhere,” said master, “that I should think so

suitable for it as yourself. You understand horses, and somehow they

understand you, and in time you might set up for yourself; I think you

could not do better. If in any way I can help you, write to me. I shall

speak to my agent in London, and leave your character with him.”

Master gave John the name and address, and then he thanked him for his

long and faithful service; but that was too much for John. “Pray, don't,

sir, I can't bear it; you and my dear mistress have done so much for

me that I could never repay it. But we shall never forget you, sir, and

please God, we may some day see mistress back again like herself; we

must keep up hope, sir.” Master gave John his hand, but he did not

speak, and they both left the stable.

The last sad day had come; the footman and the heavy luggage had gone

off the day before, and there were only master and mistress and her

maid. Ginger and I brought the carriage up to the hall door for the last

time. The servants brought out cushions and rugs and many other things;

and when all were arranged master came down the steps carrying the

mistress in his arms (I was on the side next to the house, and could see

all that went on); he placed her carefully in the carriage, while the

house servants stood round crying.

“Good-by, again,” he said; “we shall not forget any of you,” and he got

in. “Drive on, John.”

Joe jumped up, and we trotted slowly through the park and through the

village, where the people were standing at their doors to have a last

look and to say, “God bless them.”

When we reached the railway station I think mistress walked from the

carriage to the waiting-room. I heard her say in her own sweet voice,

“Good-by, John. God bless you.” I felt the rein twitch, but John made no

answer; perhaps he could not speak. As soon as Joe had taken the things

out of the carriage John called him to stand by the horses, while he

went on the platform. Poor Joe! he stood close up to our heads to hide

his tears. Very soon the train came puffing up into the station; then

two or three minutes, and the doors were slammed to, the guard whistled,

and the train glided away, leaving behind it only clouds of white smoke

and some very heavy hearts.

When it was quite out of sight John came back.

“We shall never see her again,” he said--“never.” He took the reins,

mounted the box, and with Joe drove slowly home; but it was not our home

now.