THREE ponies were grazing on a long level stretch of moorland one
perfect evening in early September. To the north were low hills, their
sides covered with purple heather and fern, the latter already showing
orange amongst the green. Here and there an old thorn or holly dotted
the hillside, the ridge itself serrated by groups of firs. Along the
southern border of the moor flowed a tiny stream, a few feet across,
which, a few miles farther down, would expand into a wide estuary dotted
with yachts.
As the sun declined, the moor fell into shade, but on the hill the red
trunks of the firs and the orange of the fern glowed with richer hues,
while the heather added a ruddy tone to its purple. The foliage took on
that rich golden-green which landscape painters love, while the shadows,
deriving their colour from the blue of the eastern sky, were glaucous
green.
Skewbald, still a yearling although some sixteen months old, was with
his mother, who had also by her side her last foal, a brown filly. She
was well grown, for she had been born early in April.
As they grazed, Tom and Molly, followed by their father, rode through
the gate which led to the little farm beyond the river. “There they
are,” said the boy—“mare, yearling, and colt.” (New Forest folk have a
way of referring to a foal as a colt, even speaking of “horse colts” and
“filly colts.”) “Yes, close at hand,” said his father; “push the gate
wide open. I hope,” he continued, “as we haven’t all day to catch the
yearling in, that you’ll just get quickly to work, and remember catching
ponies is one thing, and running races with them quite another.” Tom
grinned, but in his heart hoped the ponies would not let themselves be
driven in without a run.
The father sent his boy along by the river, while he himself made a
detour to get behind the ponies. Molly was to go up the moor to be in
readiness in case of a break-away. The ponies were to be driven through
the gate over the wooden bridge into the paddock, and, if it could be
managed that evening, right into the stable yard. The boy and girl were
to watch them, while the father drove them towards the gate. All went
well at first. As the man emerged from the trees in view of the ponies,
the mare stopped feeding, looked at the intruder, snorted, and trotted
away with her offspring. The rider followed, gently shepherding them
towards the gate, his assistants closing in on either side.
Unfortunately, the youngest boy of the family, who, with a small sister,
was fishing in the stream, had succeeded in bringing a minnow to land,
and signalized his triumph with a yell of delight, just as the ponies
came towards the opening. The mare pricked up her ears, swerved sharply,
and, followed by her youngsters, made off at full speed across the moor
in spite of all that the hunters could do. The man laughed ruefully,
calling, “You’ll get your run, Tom; we must try and get them in before
night.” Tom went like the wind, in shirt and trousers, and barebacked,
on a little rough pony, which knew every foot of the ground. The
fugitives got to a boggy place, and had to pick their way, so Tom,
running wide, got behind a patch of firs, and came upon the ponies
suddenly—too suddenly, for they went away up the moor, the mare shaking
her mane and tail, Skewbald keeping pace easily, and the foal doing
wonderfully well. They went right past the girl, though she tore off her
hat, whirled it above her head, and let off blood-curdling shrieks.
“After them, Molly,” called her father, and the thunder of hoofs
resounded, while the setting sun gilded the heather, firs, and fern with
a deeper glory than before, and enhanced Skewbald, as he emerged with
the mare and foal on the hilltop, then disappeared behind clumps of
hollies, or, a moment in shade, told dark on the skyline. The wide, open
situation, the sense of space, as the retreating ponies diminished
rapidly to mere dots, the sweet scent of bruised bog myrtle, and the
clear light, made a scene less like rural England than the setting of
some cowboy story of vast upland country in, say, Idaho or Arizona. Only
the great sierra background was lacking.
Molly managed to drive the ponies off the moor, up the hill, along the
ridge, and then turning them, drove them down the steep forest road
across the moor towards the farm, Tom and her father on either side,
waving and shouting to prevent a break-away. There was no trouble this
time at the gate, for with man and boy to right and left, and the girl
thundering behind, the ponies were glad to dash through. “Got ’em,”
chuckled Tom as he closed the gate. The others followed at the ponies’
heels over the bridge. The gates leading to the yard were open, and all
was quiet, for Mother had looked out to see how things were going, and
had taken charge of her two small children. As it happened, the
fugitives, instead of turning off into the meadow, as they might have
done, went up the road, dashed through the opening, and found themselves
in the stable yard. Molly closed the great sliding-door, while Tom and
his father, jumping from their mounts, attended to Skewbald. As he was a
lusty youngster, and with his shaking mane and depressed ears looked
mischievous, they paid him the compliment of treating him like a
full-grown stallion, and Tom was given the job of haltering him, for
practice. The halter was hung on the end of a six-foot rod, and while
his father drove the yearling into a corner, distracting his attention,
Tom quietly slipped the loop over his head and fastened the rope to a
ring in the wall, before Skewbald had time to show resentment at being
tied up.
“Fetch the branding-iron, Tom,” said his father. Mother had it on the
kitchen fire in readiness. Meanwhile the man got a sack from the shed,
and watching his opportunity, dropped it over Skewbald’s head, who,
while objecting to it very much, was so puzzled by the darkness, that he
ceased his straining and backing, and was reduced to quietude. This
bandaging the eyes is not often done, only when it is feared a pony may
become obstreperous. Sometimes the yearlings are driven into a stable
with no space to kick in, when the brander will reach over one pony to
brand the next.
Tom brought out the iron, which was like a poker with a ring handle for
hanging up, and the branding device or letters welded to the other end,
and of course in reverse. Several such irons were hanging in the stable.
There need be no shuddering at visions of red-hot iron and sizzling
flesh, for the iron when it reached the yard was black, and to all
appearance cold. Yet it _was_ hot—hot enough to destroy hair growth
where it was pressed, and leave a permanent mark.
The man took the iron and held it for a moment an inch from his cheek to
test its heat. “Just right,” he said; “hold him, Tom;” then firmly
pressed the iron against the shoulder—the shoulder, not the saddle, for
Skewbald was one day to go to the mines, where appearances do not count
for much, hard pulling and quick turning being more highly rated.
Skewbald did nothing out of the way when the iron bit into his skin, did
not kick or try to rear; he just winced, and that was all.
Then the yearling was released and turned out into the paddock, where
his mother and her foal were awaiting him. The agister would be along
shortly, and Skewbald would be on hand for the tail-cutting. This is
also a delicate operation, as a pony may launch an unexpected kick.
Generally, a large pair of scissors in hand, the cutter quietly draws
the lower tail hair towards him with the crook of a stick. In a stable
into which a dozen ponies may have been driven, perhaps for the first
time in their lives, the agister will venture fearlessly, and cut tail
after tail without mishap, trusting to the good sense of the ponies,
which will not kick in the confined space, for fear of hurting their
fellow-prisoners.
Occasionally, half a dozen commoners will agree to meet on a Saturday
afternoon, for the purpose of collecting their ponies. The harness of
the ridden ponies varies in style, and is often more homely than
elegant. A man may be riding a horse or pony whose accoutrements consist
of mere scraps of leather held together by string and rope. The boys of
the party ride barebacked, or make an old rug serve as saddle.
Some time may be spent in rounding up the ponies, which, after much hard
riding and shouting, are driven into a convenient farmyard, in a bunch
of twenty or thirty.
The quiet enclosure, tenanted only by a few pigs and poultry, becomes a
place of tumult as the hunted ponies surge in, snorting, neighing, and
tossing manes, the pursuers close on their heels to prevent a
break-away. In a moment all is life and movement. The poultry and pigs
dash hither and thither from beneath the trampling hoofs. The riders
jump from their mounts, which with drooping heads stand passive as if
glad to rest, strangely contrasting with the restless movements of the
wild ponies, which, cowed and bewildered, crowd into a corner, penned up
so closely that they have no room to kick, even if they have the
inclination; foals wander about, seeking their dams; men and boys,
leaning against their steeds, chat with the daughters of the farm, while
dogs and children appear as if by magic, the tiniest tot seeming to bear
a charmed life. The unwanted ponies are now sorted out, an operation
somewhat troublesome and delicate, and given their liberty; the
unbranded ones are tied up and marked with their respective owners’
branding-irons.
Then the company takes the farm road, leading the freshly caught ponies.
Most of the captives, after a few skirmishes, submit to their fate, and
go quietly, but some, more resentful of their treatment and unwelcome
bondage, give much trouble, both to their captors and to themselves.
They put down their fore-feet stubbornly, refusing to budge, and when
prodded by those behind, may fling themselves down, to be dragged along
the stony road. An obstinate pony will try sorely the patience of those
in charge of it, and instances have occurred of an animal causing its
own death by its violent resistance; but, generally, after half a mile
of rough treatment, the pony realizes that further opposition is
useless, and follows more or less submissively.
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