A COLD north-easter blew across the moor. The old thorns were budding,
the daffodils were peeping from the turf, and the yellow of the gorse
was beginning to show, so spring was at hand, but there were few other
signs of it, for the season was late. If the chiffchaff had come, he had
no time to make his presence known by song, his food was all too rare.
The chestnut mare and her son wandered on the sheltered side of holly
and tall gorse, picking up what they could. Skewbald, now termed a
yearling though not yet a year old, showed conspicuously in the
landscape in his chestnut and white. But he was ragged and untidy to the
last degree. His doormat-like coat was torn and tangled by conflict with
the thorns. His face and neck had the same patchy appearance. But for
the coarseness of his covering, his ribs would have shown, for, apart
from his not yet having filled out, the severe weather had kept him
“light.” His legs were still bony and ungainly, and he was plainly in
the hobbledehoy stage. But he had a good gait, the bones of his
shoulders and hind-quarters were of great strength, with plenty of room
for muscular attachments, and when he walked, he covered plenty of
ground.
The ponies wandered—wandered because they had not time to stand back to
the wind as do stall-fed cattle, for both day and night was wanted for
finding sustenance.
The mare had joined a herd led by a small but energetic stallion, whose
shade of blackish-brown, and “mealy” or light-coloured nose, proclaimed
his streak of Exmoor blood. Unlike Skewbald and other ponies, he had
been looked after during the winter, and having only lately been turned
out into the forest, was in splendid condition. He was full of spirit,
alert, and mistrustful of the unusual, while as master of the herd he
brooked no disobedience. One day after the herd had drunk at a favourite
shallow, they were moving to another feeding-ground, and the stallion,
looking over his company, noted the chestnut mare still standing
motionless. Either she had not fully slaked her thirst or some old
association made her reluctant to leave. The leader walked to her and
snorted. She turned her head, but made no other sign of acquiescence,
whereupon he lost patience, bared his teeth, depressed his ears, and
made a little run at her as if to bite, when she at once made haste to
comply with his command.
On the way, the party was joined by a young stallion of a blue roan hue,
with white forehead blaze and pink nose, accompanied by an old bay mare
with her yearling. For a time, the three having fallen in at the rear,
all went well, but presently the grey left his place, and went forward
as if for the express purpose of creating trouble for himself, for the
leader, by his depressed ears and backward glance, showed that he
considered he had a rival in the field, and was ready to take up the
implied challenge. The grey was taller, but not in such good condition,
having been left out during the winter.
The mealy-nosed stallion took to making little rushes at the interloper
with extended neck and bared teeth. The younger at first contented
himself by retreating or swerving, but at last the touch of teeth on his
neck aroused his resentment and combativeness. He turned sharply, and
flinging out his heels, kicked the leader on the shoulder. It was the
first real blow, and as if by signal, the two reared up, and with
fore-feet striking vigorously, tried to bite one another on the face and
neck, until they had to come down to rest. Then the little stallion in
his turn reversed, and let out a kick which took effect on his
opponent’s hind-quarter. The grey screamed with pain and fury. Rearing,
he threw himself at his enemy, knocked him down, and, unable to keep his
balance, rolled right over him. The leader was up first, and standing on
his prostrate opponent, belaboured him with his hoofs. The grey cried
out under this treatment, and when he succeeded in getting to his feet,
his adversary rushed at him with jaws agape and bristling mane, so that
he fairly turned tail. Then the mealy-nosed one trumpeted shrilly, shook
himself, pushed past the waiting herd to the head, and resumed the
journey.
They crossed a road, and went down a rutted path, and this for a few
yards became a causeway across an obviously boggy patch. The road had
been made by dumping gravel into the swamp, its sides being strengthened
by balks of timber. Near the edges of the bog, patches of lush grass,
emerald of hue, were beginning to sprout. Skewbald strolled down to
sample this luxury, but was recalled to her side by his mother’s sharp
whinny. She knew the temptation this verdant growth had for youngsters,
and its danger. A moment later, a tragedy occurred. A poor-looking,
black yearling, motherless for some reason, strayed from the path, to
nibble at a tempting patch, a yard or so from the edge. He walked
confidently to it, but after a mouthful, sank below his knees, and a cry
of fright broke from him. The herd showed signs of distress, and shrill
whinnyings came from the mares as they plunged to and fro along the
margin; but the colt’s efforts to reach his companions only involved him
the more surely in the morass.
* * * * *
A few bubbles rising to the surface of what was now a muddy pool told of
the disaster which had occurred. The bog keeps its secrets, and no one
knows how many ponies have been engulfed in it.
[Illustration: _The Hill Road to Burley._]
[Illustration]