The July night closed in misty and dark, for there was no moon.
Tillings had long since gone up to his room, and for hours the dull
thunder of his heavy snoring had boomed along our stalls.
I slept and waked and waked and slept after the manner of most
animals. As I slowly opened my eyes after a long nap, I heard a low,
slow, grating noise which did not in the least disturb Tillings’ deep
slumber. No dog was about the place or his quick ear would have heard
the quiet picking, and a roaring bark would have brought Tillings down
in great haste.
Very stealthily at length a man entered, carrying a queer kind of
light. I know now it came from a “dark lantern,” a kind of lantern
shedding light from a small opening that could be quickly closed. It is
sometimes called a “bull’s eye.”
This silent figure tiptoed from stall to stall, casting a swift,
searching glance into each. Then he came back to mine, lifted my feet
very gently, and I think stuck some kind of soft, thick padding along
each hoof. He next unhitched my long, leather chain and led me slowly
and guardedly out. As he did so, I gave a loud, long whinny, but for
once Tillings did not hear, and it was so against my nature to kick or
struggle, it never occurred to me to do either.
He closed the stable door without a sound, walked me fully a quarter of
a mile, then mounted bareback and set me to a smart, steady pace. We
journeyed all the rest of the night, and nearly all the next day, until
I could scarcely hobble.
Before daylight the pads in my hoofs, which made my hoof beats almost
noiseless, had rolled into little balls hurting me so the man relieved
me of them. And at times he would dismount and walk beside me a few
miles. As he was a heavy man I could not have stood the long journey as
I did, had he made me carry him all the way. At noon he gave me a small
pail of oats.
Toward dusk, such a queer place as I found myself in! A wide, green
space, with things called “tents” in which lived men, women and
children. It was a gipsy camp. And a man named “Rondo,” a gipsy, had
stolen me.
I was not unkindly treated. Once we reached the encampment, water was
given me,—clear and delicious it was too, right from a spring, and I
was fed, meagrely I must confess, then fastened to a tree under which
I could lie down, on a large, thick blanket, which was old and ragged,
but yet kept me warm.
I must have slept immediately upon lying down for I knew nothing more
until a smart slap on my plump flank roused me, and a July sun was
already high in the heavens.
A busy scene was all around. Women were washing dishes at a rude table,
breakfast was well over; men were brushing showy garments, while a few
children danced to the music of bones and tambourines. I was given a
scanty breakfast of plain hay, no oats, no sweet timothy rich with
clover, but just dry hay and water.
Then came the queerest performance in which I ever hope to figure. A
swarthy man held me firmly by the bridle, while another man _painted_
me from ear-tips to ankle-ends, and—black, coal black! my whole body
matching mane and tail of midnight hue. Then they named me “Don.”
So I was no longer a bay pony called Dexter, but a black pony by the
name of Don.
A brand new life was before me. It transpired that I was to be a “trick
pony,” and although the few things I was to be taught were very simple,
it yet was astonishing how soon I learned.
First, I was to let no one mount me but Rondo and a boy called “Nick,”
who fed, watered and cleaned me,—all I ever was cleaned. Every little
while I was given a fresh coat of colouring, which I somehow hated.
Soon I was taught to dance, “taking steps” after the manner of dancing
men. Are you curious to know how this was done?
I am glad to say no cruelty was resorted to. Animals, a great many
of them, are just as fond of sugar as are little boys. This is
particularly true of horses and ponies. A chunk of sugar weighing half
a pound or more was placed before me, and in time I came to know, just
as a child would, that when I had done what was required I would be
given the sugar and not before.
Rondo would stand before me, lift a foot and crook a knee. Nick would
slap my leg, reaching out his hand to take my hoof. In this way I
learned the first movement toward dancing.
Then Rondo would slide a foot across the sward. I learned to slide a
hoof in the same manner. Pretty soon I understood with a kind of “horse
sense” that I was to try doing whatever Rondo did, at lesson time.
Sugar rewarded each victory, and as said before, it was astonishing how
soon I could lift a hoof, bend a knee, slide, half curvet, lift another
fore hoof, slide, curvet, turn, chassé, and promenade a few steps.
Then I was taught to “shed” anyone and everyone who attempted to mount
me, except Rondo, Nick, and one of the little girls, if she was placed
on my back by one of the men. I must shy, curvet and elude anyone else.
Should anyone by a dexterous movement succeed in getting on to my back,
I must lie down, half roll over, and adroitly spill the venturesome one.
For several weeks my life in the gipsy camp was full of variety and
much that was amusing while warm weather lasted. The outdoor life
was pleasant and free, what was expected of me was easy in the main
although I often was miserably tired when I laid down at night. My food
also was coarse and scanty, and I missed pitifully the careful grooming
that hitherto I had always received.
One thing I had been taught with particular strictness was not to allow
people to pat or caress me. This, no doubt, had to do with the paint or
stain with which I was continually covered. Tricks however were not all
that was expected of me.
Every pleasant evening, Rondo, Mother Hubbard—the Madame of the
tribe—two or three children and Nick, went to different villages around
the place of encampment, and under a light, flimsy tent, Mother Hubbard
told fortunes, Nick played bones or the tambourine, the children
danced, and I showed off my few tricks.
Wherever we travelled to and fro, on my back was a big box containing
the velvet gown and tinsel cap in which Mother Hubbard arrayed herself
as the fortune teller. Also in a great, unwieldy bundle was the
portable tent which always must be erected by eight o’clock. Besides
this, on the return trip the children would take turns in riding a-top
of the load with which I was already burdened.
Our tramps were long and tiresome. It was wonderful that the younger
people could trudge so far, dance their jigs and flings, then walk even
a portion of the way home. But there was excitement in seeing troops
of people, chiefly young, in gay spirits and bright summer attire,
pouring into the lighted tent, and midst jokes and laughter hearing the
fortunes told, which always must have been pleasant and agreeable, for
they went as they came, full of high spirits and laughter.
Once in a while older people came, and more than once, an officer of
the law, in helmet, and with brass buttons on his coat, would come and
look around, but he always found things quiet and orderly.
I sometimes felt a hope stirring within me that he might be looking for
a lost pony, but how, pray, would anyone know me for a bay pony when
wearing a coat as black as black could be?
After being in a place about two weeks, we would pack up and go—always
by night—to some other town, select a rural spot, a bit of woods if
possible, pitch the tents, then at night go to some “open” near the
village and draw the crowds sure to assemble.
I think a good deal of money rolled into Mother Hubbard’s tin cup.
The tribe had plenty of food such as it was, but they lived on coarse
supplies, and largely from the baker’s wagon sure to promptly find us
out. The men smoked a good deal, as also did Mother Hubbard.
As for me, I soon began to pine for the healthful nourishment always
enjoyed until now. Hay and freshly dried grass, never anything else was
given me. No sweet timothy, fragrant with clover, no oats or crushed
corn; never a mouthful of scalded bran after a long, long march in a
chilly drizzle. For by the last of August we began to have cool, damp
nights, when the men, women and children would drink steaming tea
brewed over a good hot fire kindled outside the main tent after the
night’s tramp.
But no one thought of poor “Don” tethered too far off to feel the warm
blaze, and longing for a little outside or inside warming.
During September I began to show the effects of hard work and no
play. My smooth coat had grown rough, my ankles swelled from too much
wearisome travel, and I was tired all the time, very tired. I should
have really suffered now from the cold but for an old piece of carpet
that was thrown over me at night.
Oh, how I longed for the home farm, or Mr. Bolt’s warm stall, or Mr.
Van Vim’s well kept stable, with Tillings to care for my pony wants!
[Illustration: OH! HOW I LONGED FOR THE HOME FARM!]