MOPSIE.
It was on the very next day that Mopsie saved Eunice’s life. Why, I
haven’t said a word yet about Mopsie, have I? and the dear little fellow
ought to have a whole chapter all to himself.
The pets at Kayuna were quite as important, in the children’s eyes, at
least, as they were themselves, and equalled them in number. There was
Donald’s great St. Bernard, stately and dignified, Kaiser William by
name. He was a splendid fellow, but would follow no one but his master.
The pigeons, lovely, soft, fluttering things, belonged to Marjorie, who
fed them faithfully. They would come at her call in troops and light on
her shoulders, and peck at bits of bread which she held between her
teeth.
Eunice’s pet was a beauty, for it was a snow-white pony, which her
godmother had given her the summer before. It carried her in the saddle
beautifully, or was harnessed to the little light cart which held two.
Fine times the children had with Charcoal, named so, on Donald’s advice,
because it wasn’t black.
The twins owned between them the cunningest and brightest little Scotch
terrier, named Duster, from his feathery tail, which, of course, he
always carried straight up in the air. Another dog, named Dixie, of no
particular breed, but of very social nature, belonged to the family in
general, though Cricket laid claim to him, until she had Mopsie.
And who was Mopsie? It is rather a humiliating fact, but I may as well
confess it at once—Mopsie was, or had been, nothing but a poor little
circus pony.
Cricket, at first, was rather ashamed of Mopsie’s past history,
considering that Eunice had her beautiful Charcoal, who had been born
and brought up in a gentleman’s stable. The boys teased her about her
“aristocratic pony,” till she would say, rather indignantly, “I don’t
care. It doesn’t matter a bit what a person does, if he does it just the
best he can, mamma says so. And it’s just the same with a pony. I _know_
my Mopsie was the nicest horse in the circus, for the men said so.
There!”
But after this particular day no one ever teased her again.
If Mopsie could have spoken, he could have told them many stories of his
circus life. He was, certainly, a very bright, sweet-tempered little
creature, and knew no end of tricks, more indeed, than the children ever
suspected, for there was no one to tell him to do them, or who knew what
he could do. He could sit up like a dog, and hop around on his hind
legs, keeping time to music,—this had been called dancing on the
programme,—and jump through hoops, and many other things.
For a long time the children wondered why, as soon as the cart, to which
he was harnessed, stopped, he would try to turn himself around beside
the wheels. But this was a trick he had been taught. The clown in the
circus would drive him round and round the ring, and as soon as he
stopped, it was pony’s business to turn himself directly around, for the
front wheels were low enough to slip under the cart. Then the clown
would pretend he couldn’t find him, because the pony was no longer in
front, and he would pretend to look down in the sawdust for him, and in
his pocket, saying, “Now, where _is_ Alexander the Great gone?” for that
was pony’s name before he was Mopsie.
Another thing he had been trained to do was to pick up and carry really
heavy things in his teeth, and run away with them, while the clown ran
after him, shouting “Stop!” but the little fellow knew he must not stop
till he heard his name as well.
All these, and many more tricks Mopsie had been in the habit of doing
before great crowds every afternoon and evening.
At last came one afternoon that Mopsie little thought was to be his last
in the circus. The circus had come to Wellsboro’, and Mike, Doctor
Ward’s groom, had gone to see it. He was so fond of horses that he was
always hanging around the tents where they were kept, and making friends
with the hostlers.
Suddenly a great commotion arose. One of the big horses, which was
always ugly, got perfectly wild, from the bites of horse-flies, it was
afterward thought, and began kicking furiously right and left, plunging
and rearing till the frightened men could not hold him. Poor little
Alexander the Great was being groomed and harnessed for the ring; as the
maddened horse broke loose, pony and groom were kicked by those great,
heavy hoofs, till the life was almost crushed out of both of them.
In the confusion, after the horse was secured, nobody noticed poor
little Alexander, who lay moaning and quivering in agony. The man beside
him was lifted and taken away, and then somebody bent over the pony.
“He’s done for, poor little fellow,” the man said, pityingly. “I’ll put
him out of his misery,” and he drew a pistol.
Then Mike came forward. “Don’t shoot him yit. Lemme look at the loikes
of ’im.”
Mike was a born horse-doctor, and to his practised eye the pony was not
so seriously hurt but that there was hope of saving him.
“Will you let me have him?” he asked, after feeling the pony all over
very carefully. “He’ll take a sight o’ doctorin’, ’n’ he won’t be no
good in a cirkis agin.”
“Take him, and welcome,” the manager said, hastily. “We’ve no time for
sick horses,” and he swore again at the horse who had done all the
mischief.
So Mike got an old door, and one of the men helped him lift poor little
suffering Alexander on it. Then he hired a cart somewhere, and so the
pony came to Kayuna.
This had been about the first of May. The children were not allowed to
see the new arrival for a week or two, for he was not a very pleasant
object. His legs were bound up, and his poor sides were all covered with
“splarsters,” as Zaidee announced once, in great excitement, when she
had taken a stolen peep.
At last the little visitor was in a condition to be seen, for, thanks to
Mike’s good care, he mended fast. The “splarsters” were taken off,
though his legs were still in splints, and Mike groomed his shaggy,
uneven coat as best he could.
Cricket and Eunice saw him first, and were perfectly delighted with him.
He was even smaller than their dear Charcoal. After that they were his
constant visitors, feeding him with apples and sugar, and petting him
till poor little Alexander must have wondered if he had died and gone to
the horse-heaven.
Then came the exciting day when the last splinter and bandage were
removed, and pony, a little weak and uncertain as to his hoofs, but very
frisky as to his head, was brought out into the yard.
Mike, meantime, had had a private interview with papa, and following
that, one with Cricket.
The result was, that a very happy little girl raced down to the barn,
with Eunice and Dixie close behind.
“Oh, you dear, darling old Mopsie,” Cricket cried out, flinging her arms
about his rough little head. “You’re my ownty-donty pony. Eunice has
Charcoal, and now I have you,” and she hugged him again and again.
When she released him, what did that cunning pony do but offer her his
front hoof to shake!
“Oh, you dear, dear, thing!” she shrieked. “Mike! Mike! see that! he
wants to shake hands,” for the pony sociably offered his other hoof.
“Yis, miss,” said proud Mike, grinning from ear to ear. “He’s been a
cirkis-pony, and knows a deal o’ tricks, I dessay.”
Eunice dived into the stables, and in a moment reappeared, leading her
little snowy Charcoal. The two ponies were a decided contrast—the one so
clean, and well-groomed and white, and the other, rough and black, with
shaggy, uneven coat.
“Yours is awfully cute,” said Eunice, with an arm over her pony’s neck,
“but he can’t compare with my Charcoal. He’s nothing but a circus-pony,
after all.”
That was not like Eunice, and she did not mean to hurt Cricket’s
feelings. It was only that her own pony looked so fresh and dear to her.
But Cricket fired up at once.
“You’re my own Mopsie,” she cried, hugging her black pony again, “and no
other pony could be half so cunning and smart. Charcoal isn’t a bit
smart, Eunice, you know he isn’t.”
A quarrel seemed close at hand, right over those dear ponies, which
stood rubbing noses in the friendliest way. But Eunice was too generous
to hurt Cricket’s feelings knowingly, and she said, quickly,
“Mopsie does look awfully bright, Cricket, and I think that’s a good
name for him. I wonder what his name really was?”
But Mike did not know, so Mopsie was christened thus on the spot, and
Mopsie he remained to the end of the chapter.
“When can I ride him, do you think, Mike?” asked Cricket, eagerly, as
she fed him sugar.
“Shure, Miss Scricket, an’ I’m thinkin’ it’ll be next week ye’ll be
afther ridin’ him, if he kapes on a’mendin’.”
After this, Cricket hated any mention of the fact that Mopsie was, or
had been, a circus-pony, though she stoutly insisted that it “didn’t
make a bit of difference, so long as he circused as well as he could.”
Mike took the best of care of him, and a month made a wonderful
difference with the little fellow. Constant and careful grooming made
his rough hair smoother, and with the vaseline and other things that
Mike knew of, his uneven coat began to lose the marks of scars and
“splarsters.”