restless spring has passed. The year has grown; and now the full
accomplishment of summer meets the eye. The season pauses, and for
a few matchless weeks we see no change. Nature rests; her work is
well-nigh done, and you are free to see it all if you will only look.
Dolly rose to her feet and turned slowly toward the bars. No need
to clang the hour in jangling notes from tawdry towers; Dolly has
met the tryst at the meadow gate ever since Pan piped the shepherd’s
flocks to madness. I rose too, and we went together to the gate. I
let down the bars and we stepped through. She stopped to crop a tuft
of grass. I slid my arm over her neck, and through the meadow where I
fled in haste we walked side by side with measured tread toward the
sweet-smelling barn.
The demands of my small estate are modest, but I employ the
services of one associate and fellow worker. He must be a man of
varied talents and tireless industry and above all, for my entire
satisfaction, he must be gifted with a sense of values, a feeling for
the fitness of things. This is hard to find.
I hate to make a change, but occasionally it has to be done, and
that involves the ordeal of interviewing applicants, a duty I loathe
and perform badly. The interview always changes from an inquiry
into the applicant’s fitness for the place into a lengthy apology
on my part for the duties imposed. I have the courage, however, to
make my decision hang on his answers to two questions. When last
struggling with this problem I was called upon by a brisk young man
who impressed me tremendously. He seemed the sort of person who would
romp through his day’s work by noon and have the rest of the time to
devote to the small details never attended to properly with me. I
had made up my mind to entrust myself to his masterful direction. I
paused before applying the final test; I eyed him narrowly.
“Do you milk?” I asked.
A deprecatory smile flittered across his face; that was all. The
question was too absurd to require a verbal answer.
“Do you milk—reverently?” I asked.
“In my last place,” he answered, “we milked by electricity.”
I dismissed him. What a preposterous idea! I would as soon cultivate
my roses with a caterpillar tractor.
The next applicant was an inefficient-looking elderly man with kind
eyes. He had nice wrinkles. I count a great deal on wrinkles.
I asked him the crucial question. For one moment he searched my very
soul with twinkling eyes.
“I try to,” he said.
And so the Incomparable One came.
As Dolly and I pass the rose trellis behind which I had skulked an
hour before, I square my shoulders and walk upright like a man. Here
Cerberus joins us. He rubs a cool, moist nose in the palm of my hand
and trots quietly beside me.
Two khaki-clad little figures appear from the house, carrying between
them a glittering pail. The Incomparable One springs from the earth
somewhere, and we all meet on the gravel path before the door.
The Incomparable One, with a broken riding-crop as his badge and
insignia of rank, takes my place and gently directs Dolly’s progress.
We fall behind and wait outside till Dolly has drunk her fill and is
standing in her accustomed place. Once, pail in hand, I had preceded
her, but my error had been made plain to me, and I never transgressed
again.
Dolly now in place, the Incomparable One returns. With hands and
arms glistening from recent soapy ablutions, he takes the pail and
holds it to the sun. He examines every inch of it critically and with
deliberate care. The process is always observed by an Hibernian lady
from a kitchen window with whole-hearted disapproval. This daily
episode is the only incident in a busy life in which my perfect
servitor is not the very flower of tact and discretion.
His examination complete, we go where Dolly waits. He takes his place
on gently tilted stool; we stand one side. He pulls his rolled-back
sleeves an inch higher, his great firm hands are rubbed together,
and then the fingers flex in smooth preparatory exercises. He leans
forward and gently touches each teat in turn. From each he pulls
a tiny lactic stream and lets it fall upon the clean rye straw
beneath his feet. This is not done because—as held by some—the first
milk contains more impurities than the rest; it is a libation, a
propitiatory offering to whatever god there be who presides over the
destinies of cattle and impecunious rural sentimentalists.
And now an upward glance. A little figure, each in daily turn, takes
its place, and Dolly’s swinging tail is gently held at rest. The pail
is raised to its position between extended knees, and all is ready.
I notice that the milker adheres to the proper school. I do not
hold, myself, for a position with the forehead of the milker pressed
against the bovine flank; rather, I like to see the left knee gently
touching the off hind leg. It is a satisfaction to see things done
with a nice attention to detail.
And now we hear the first streams strike the bottom of the empty
pail. The shrill staccato of their impact is the overture, soon
muffled by the increasing flood. The cadence slows; we are in the
full orchestral swing by now. The milker’s bowed head is slowly
raised, and, as the white foam nears the top, he looks aloft. He
sways a bit on his tilted stool; his head moves gently back and forth
like some inspired conductor carrying his musicians through the
difficult passages of a mighty symphony. And now the beat quickens,
the little streams leap into the rising tide of foam with soft
lisping sounds. A final volley; then a few soft notes, long-drawn,
and it is done.
The milker rises, flushed, triumphant. He casts a quick appraising
glance at the pail.
“Half quart off to-night—the grass is getting dry,” he says.
Our messengers wait, and with the heavy pail between, carry our
precious spoil kitchenward. Once, when the going was slippery, an
accident occurred. But that is not spoken of now.
I glance about the tidy stable. How well he keeps it! Windows
closed against the noonday heat now open to cooling breezes of
late afternoon. The little gate to the back land, swung hospitably
open, invites me to explore its familiar mysteries. I visit the pigs
and have a cheerful moment as I note that even here are care and
cleanliness. The henhouse, freshly whitewashed, smells of lime, and
sleek fat fowl are busy with fresh litter on a dry, clean floor.
Cerberus is at my side; my pipe draws cool and sweet.
I remember the garden and the white-clad guests. I shake what dust
I may from coat and trousers—I find the guests have lingered. The
garden lies half shadowed; sweet flowering things in gay profusion
line the soft green turf; a bluebird glides from treetop to tiny pool
to drink and bathe.
Gracious ladies sit in gentle talk beneath the trees. I join them. I
note with satisfaction that the group contains none save the choice
elect. They know the easy give-and-take of talk. They have a feeling
for silence, the one true test of gentle breeding. Their clothes,
a mystery beyond my ken, are those I like—sheer, simple things
with graceful lines; their hands, the firm, strong hands of ripened
womanhood, with scant adornment. Tiny feet, well shod, are—like their
hands—at rest. These four who so adorn the scene are the only ones I
know who can sit still.
We talk, each as we choose: the homely task, the book, the play, the
careless unthought talk of friends. I feel an utter thankfulness:
my lines in very truth have fallen in the pleasantest of places.
And well may I be thankful, for many moons may wax and wane before
this group, by happy accident, shall meet again in perfect mood and
perfect weather. And to think I almost missed it! What brought me
back? What happened over yonder, ’neath the tree where Dolly grazed?
The shadows lengthen. One by one, with laughing eyes, the guests
betake themselves to homes made blessed by their presence. And now we
sit in silence. Back from duties well performed, the children come.
Tired little bodies seek the softness of the close-cropped grass.
Cerberus sees that all is well, and sinks to slumber by my chair.
Peace, perfect peace, comes with the setting sun.
The evening meal is ready. Grudgingly we leave the glamour of the
hour. As we cross the grass, a voice says, “I am glad you joined us.
It was pleasant.”
And as I stop to fondle Cerberus at the door I think I hear—I am not
sure—the same voice saying, in a soft aside, “So, blessed be the cow.”
[Illustration: Kids carrying pail]
BLESSED BE THE HORSE
[Illustration: Three horses]
BLESSED BE THE HORSE
I live in a hunting-country. Every autumn our stone walls show tiny
red banners marking the run, and the talk is much of horse.
I do not hunt, myself: my interest in the sport is purely academic.
But of one thing I am sure—from an æsthetic standpoint there is no
sport like it.
On occasions the run passes within sight of my abode, and sometimes
it begins or ends within a stone’s throw of my outdoor bedroom. Those
are the rare mornings. No need to watch the clock. You lie secure and
warm, half sleeping, half awake, when slowly you hear far off that
magic sound of beating hoofs—not the sharp rattle of steel on harsh
macadam, but the low beat of distant hoofs on good firm earth. There
is no sound like it. You catch a suggestion of it sometimes when you
ride alone, and horse and rider share the glory of a run across some
open meadow before you turn for the long, cool walk homeward with
loose rein and lowered head. But to hear it in its perfection scores
of hoofs must beat in unison, and it must begin far off and come on
toward you with growing intensity.
I hear it and sit up. I pull the blankets close. It is frosty. Stray
wisps of mist still lie in the hollows. From chaste retirement I can
view the whole panorama. The hounds swing round the corner of the
woods, tiny specks of brown-and-white in full cry, followed close by
splashes of scarlet. On they come, they take each intervening wall
smoothly and without effort. The field follows, strung out in orderly
observance of the rules and courtesies, whatever they may be, of this
regal game. And all the time the music of the hoofs swells about me,
teases, tempts, and troubles.
The pack stops by the elm tree in Dolly’s pasture. A grizzled rider
yaps his immemorial call, as old as hunting, as ancient as this noble
sport itself. He tosses tidbits to the eager pack: their scant reward
for miles of breathless coursing, unless the run itself be their
reward. The old man has ridden many times like this; he knows the
best there is to show. I wonder sometimes how he thinks we do at this
old sport in this new country, for he has ridden with the best across
the seas. I watched the hounds as they swept in and knew he must be
pleased, for close-packed they came, as if they would make good his
boast that one horse-blanket could cover them—the final and unfailing
test. The field is in. The Master, magnificent in scarlet, sitting
a fretful horse with smiling composure, greets them all, a friendly
word and kindly smile for stragglers coming in a bit abashed. The
steaming horses move in easy circles, while grooms attend the more
exalted riders.
They take the highway and in laughing groups go down the road. A boy
appears and plucks the red pennants from the walls. It is done.
I nestle down. Once more my eyes have seen the glory of the field.
I am content, and doze once more, and once again I feel unbounded
admiration for the men and women who can so disport themselves before
they break their fast.
At an appropriate and fitting hour I repair to my own stable. I
do this with some hesitation, for on these mornings, when the
hunting-world has swung into our orbit, the Incomparable One greets
me with a manner somewhat vague and questioning. He is not quite
sure of me and not convinced that his own status is just what he
would wish it to be. Why I am not afield he does not know; a horrid
doubt assails him. On these mornings I tread with circumspection the
devious paths of horsy talk.
Even in my little stable there is a strange unrest. Eyes are
brighter; ears are up; nervous hoofs are pawing.
I look them all over; first my own (of course, no man may talk of
what is “his” with any truth), one in a thousand, purchased for a
song, as is my wont by stern necessity, rescued from menial labor
and now pet and darling of us all, perhaps a bit too much horse for
me, but kind and willing, wise and spirited. The other two, black
ponies with white stars, as like as sisters save that one has two
white feet and one has one. Each owns a little mistress whom she
loves, and these two ponies are as like their riders as if all four
were sisters—one nervous, one sedate; one eager at the bit and to be
handled with a steady hand, the other willing, always in the van, but
temperate and steady. Just a word, and she is back in hand. One curb,
one snaffle, so it goes. But use them both aright and all is well.
There are two pleasures in this horse-relation, one afield and one
here in the stable. To-day it is indoors, for the promise of the
morning has failed. Already a gentle rain is falling and the woods
are wet. I love to potter about a stable. A clean stable is the
nicest-smelling place in the world. Why feminine nostrils object to
stable smells indoors I never could understand; but that is only one
small part of a greater riddle.
The Incomparable One has learned to know my oddities. One of them
is an unreasonable passion for soft leather and glittering metal.
What lovelier thing can mortal hand touch than leather, smooth and
clean, as soft and supple as velvet? The trappings of my steeds are
meagre and far from the best. I see that all is safe, no weak spots
at buckles and other secret places; but once safe, that is as far as
I can go, except that I believe and teach the simple theory that the
poorer the tack the greater the care. And the Incomparable One does
wonders. The bridles hang against a clean white cloth; the brow-bands
in perfect alignment; the curb against the wall; the snaffle broken,
lying on the curb; the chain over the snaffle; reins looped high in
perfect symmetry. There is a sight to please: the saddles on their
racks with irons off, smooth, clean, and soft; no dust, no soap in
crevices, betray an artist’s hand. The irons hang on cleaning-hooks
and wait a final polishing. The feed room next, with its supplies.
And now aloft to where the sweet hay lies in dusty half-lights. What
a place to dream an hour away, and what a play-place for little
people, their minds afire with all the mystery and romance of their
first young years!
And now it rains in earnest. I find a small green stool; I take it
to the door and sit me down. An open stable-door, a windless rain,
a dog beside you, and a bedraggled hen or two to scratch outside.
This is the perfect place to be. The moist, damp odors all about you,
the sound of restless hoofs, the grind of teeth on hay, the dropping
water from the eaves fill ears and heart and soul.
What a strange thing it is that a certain type of biped called Man
should have chance dominion over all the other creatures! How he has
bound them to his service! And of them all no one has suffered as the
horse.
He seems more sensitive than the others. No horse has bad habits,
save man-taught ones. What a score on some far-off Judgment Day has
the horse to settle with his master, man! And that is why I like to
fuss with horses. I like to try to show them that this relationship
can be agreeable to us both. I have no feeling for an outlaw horse,
but any horse that has not had unfortunate human relationships too
long is worth the experiment.
The horse is a habit-making, habit-controlled creature. The trick
seems to be, so far as my very meagre experience has shown, to teach
good habits. And of all the creatures I know man is in some ways
the least fitted to teach them. He is vain, imperious, and often
cowardly; that is why a perfect horseman is just a bit more rare than
a perfect poet. I have long since given over any ambition to write an
epic poem, but I do hope, if life be spared, by patience, humility,
and the sternest application to the task, to learn to ride a horse. I
doubt my ultimate success, but somehow I feel that if I ever do, in
the face of almost insuperable obstacles both physical and mental, it
will be a splendid achievement.
The golden autumn days go by and the first suggestion of real winter
comes. We have, however, here and there a day dedicated to the horse.
Such a day dawns. It is the day that with us is devoted, in theory,
to the memory of a Genoese sailor, and is made by beneficent
legislation a holiday, a day free from the thralldom of office and
school! It has been decided that the morning shall be spent in tasks;
there shall be an early lunch, and then a ride, timed to bring us
back through the woods when the sun is low and streams in level
golden shafts between the trees.
I seek the stable. Already preparations are afoot. My garb alone is
warrant for the news. I watch the horses cleaned. I never watch a
workman without a thrill, if only he be a real craftsman, a man who
loves his work. And such a one is he who cleans my horses. I can
clean a horse after a fashion, but here is consummate art: free swing
of comb and brush following the graceful lines of the creature’s
body; the softly spoken word to soothe impatience; the low soft
whistling sound that none but the elect can manage; the tap of comb
on hoof or floor; the fearless, accustomed handling of a horse. A
perfect art, and loved, I know, by horse as well as man. What little
skill I have in other things I’d gladly trade if I could clean a
horse the way this old man does.
The hours lag, but now we meet for lunch. Plans are discussed, our
course laid out. We make the meal a mockery and hurry to the stable.
No having horses brought round to the door—not in our simple life are
things like that. We seek them out, and make the pleasure greater.
They stand in single file upon the floor, saddled and bridled,
waiting our command. Each is covered with a bright plaid cooler; ears
are erect, and nervous lips jingle the shining bits.
The Incomparable One is as busily important as if each steed were a
prospective Derby winner. We pull off the coolers, each our own. We
fold them up and hang them on the rail, and then we drop restraining
hitching-ropes and go out single file. No mounting on a slippery
stable floor; we want good gravel, smoothly packed beneath our feet.
And then I watch to see if lessons have been learned: three things to
do before you mount. I smile at the Incomparable One, and he smiles
too, as little hands seek saddle girths. A gentle tug; they are all
right, not loose, not tight. Then the throatlatch: it must rest light
and easy. Then the curb, to see if it be smooth. All is reported
right, so then we mount. We feel again a moving creature under us; we
feel the gentle lift of smooth, straight legs, and we are off.
I take my place with Two Feet on my right. I notice two links are
dropped on her curb chain—it is well. One Foot sedately takes her
place upon my left; her curb swings loose; no need for a free hand on
that side.
We cross the first meadow at a walk. Two Feet capers and frets a
bit; she has not learned yet what One Foot knows so well, that we
walk this meadow to test the tack, to feel the seat we have, to find
the irons, and to learn the mood that horse and rider share to-day.
We turn into the next; and now a word, and heads come up and off we
trot. A gentle pace, but still enough to bring the breeze to our
faces, and now we hear the hoofs, the soft sound of yielding leather,
and the click of steel. I look from right to left. Youth still
fretful and impatient on my right, so I suggest a little lighter
hand, a soothing word; upon the left, Experience trots with even
temper and with steady stride.
Before us lies a smooth, ascending swell. I ask if we are ready,
irons back, feet forward. Then a gentle pressure of the heel, a rein
drawn lightly, and three creatures leap. Youth takes the lead; a
word must bring her back. This is no race or steeplechase. So back
she comes, but shakes her head and dashes foam upon her shoulder.
Experience travels neck and neck with me, a tranquil eye, but
nostrils quiver, and I wonder if she is recalling days when this pace
was mere play for her. At the brow of the hill we pull up and loosen
rein. Three heads go down a bit; we ease our seats, and I can see
the glow in cheeks and eyes that must mean joy and health in future
years.
And now a long walk to the woods. We talk of hands and knees, of
heels, and of our mounts, each feeling that we ride the very best.
And so it goes, walk, trot, and canter. Yes, my friend, that’s all.
I know it all seems tame to you. We hack, I know, but hacking at its
best is all we ever hope or want to do. It is enough. It takes us
out; it gives us joy to feel that we can do that much, and day by day
we hope to do it better.
And now we reach the woods. The sun is right. We go in single file,
with Experience ahead to show the way, and Youth comes next, and Age
brings up the rear.
I look ahead at those two little figures. They are learning the
hard lessons: constant care, constant thought, the hands, the knee,
how often do I speak the word! How hard they try, and how fast they
learn! I sometimes think it arrogant to teach; they do as well as I,
and better too at times. But now no lessons for the woods entrance.
Dry leaves are on the path and squirrels scold and scurry. We
shout back and forth, “Oh, look! See this, and that!” And then a
new tremendous enterprise portends; a strange, new path leads—none
of us knows where. We take it, and we wind and twist. What glorious
fun, what adventure! and we shout with glee when it brings us out in
well-known pastures far from home.
We turn across the broad acres of a friendly neighbor; a narrow,
shaded lane invites. A stern sign posted at the gate warns all away,
but we are of the elect and enter in. We are under the pine trees
now; the needles pave the path. Oh, what a footing! Once more we
trot, and almost without sound of hoof we whirl along. Youth is
calmer now; she works with us; she has learned the pace and keeps her
stride unbroken. Experience asks for more bridle; she knows where she
is, and wants a freer head on the long upgrade that brings us to my
neighbor’s house.
He sees us and waves his hand. He sits in a great chair upon his
lawn. A perfect horseman, he will never ride again, but it is joy to
him to see the children come, for to such as they he must pass the
torch of gentle sportsmanship. And now the crowning moment comes. We
swing into a great field, again my kindly neighbor’s, and questioning
eyes are turned to mine.
All right, we will—but careful now! I know the ground, it’s smooth,
without a hole, and yonder is a tiny jump, put there by kindly
thought for children. I show the way, and as I turn to watch the
others, Experience follows; her stride is easy, every nerve at rest.
She takes the tiny jump as part of her day’s work and canters up and
stops. Youth now comes, pulling just a bit and nervous in her stride.
She takes it well, but jumps a foot too high and does not want to
stop when she is over. She will learn; when she has learned she will
know that half the work will do it just as well.
And now the end. We whirl. We let them go. For one short moment we
thunder side by side. We hear the hoofs; we feel the plunging bodies
between our knees; we see the foam blown in the wind. The earth
glides under us; we seem to fly. How sure the feet, how mighty are
the muscles that hurl us forward! And how our hearts beat and how our
faces tingle!
Now we turn toward home. Cool horses out, cool horses in, is our
rule. We walk side by side and talk of our adventures. We tell where
we were right and where we blundered; how wonderful the horses were;
of the beautiful things we saw; of our friends who let us ride
over their good land; how to do this and when to do that; all the
wonderful minutiæ of the greatest sport in the world. We turn down
our little avenue; we come home formally and in order.
The Incomparable One is waiting. We dismount, and he takes my horse,
out of deference to age and general incapacity. My comrades take
charge of their own. We have learned it all—how saddles come off and
what you do with them; how bridles come off and where to put them;
what to do with the horses and why. What a world of fun it is! The
sugar is brought, and glistening necks arch and gentle lips fondle
the sweet offering lying in the flat palms of little hands. And
then to the house, to talk it all over again with the world’s most
attentive listener.
When bedtime comes, I see a light in the stable and go down to find
the Incomparable One in the tiny saddle-room.