A HAPPY HORSE
For a good while after I went to Dingley Farm I was very shy of the
horses, for I was afraid they might kick me, thinking that I was a "bad
dog" like Bruno. However, they all had such good faces, and looked at me
so kindly, that I was beginning to get over my fear of them.
Fleetfoot, Mr. Harry's colt, was my favorite, and one afternoon, when
Mr. Harry and Miss Laura were going out to see him, I followed them.
Fleetfoot was amusing himself by rolling over and over on the grass
under a tree, but when he saw Mr. Harry, he gave a shrill whinny, and
running to him, began nosing about his pockets.
"Wait a bit," said Mr. Harry, holding him by the forelock. "Let me
introduce you to this young lady, Miss Laura Morris. I want you to make
her a bow." He gave the colt some sign, and immediately he began to paw
the ground and shake his head.
Mr. Harry laughed and went on: "Here is her dog Joe. I want you to like
him, too. Come here, Joe." I was not at all afraid, for I knew Mr, Harry
would not let him hurt me, so I stood in front of him, and for the first
time had a good look at him. They called him the colt, but he was really
a full-grown horse, and had already been put to work. He was of a dark
chestnut color, and had a well-shaped body and a long, handsome head,
and I never saw, in the head of a man or beast, a more beautiful pair of
eyes than that colt had--large, full, brown eyes they were that he
turned on me almost as a person would. He looked me all over as if to
say: "Are you a good dog, and will you treat me kindly, or are you a bad
one like Bruno, and will you chase me and snap at my heels and worry me,
so that I shall want to kick you?"
I looked at him very earnestly and wagged my body, and lifted myself on
my hind legs toward him. He seemed pleased and put down his nose to
sniff at me, and then we were friends. Friends, and such good friends,
for next to Jim and Billy, I have loved Fleetfoot.
Mr. Harry pulled some lumps of sugar out of his pocket, and giving them
to Miss Laura, told her to put them on the palm of her hand and hold it
out flat toward Fleetfoot. The colt ate the sugar, and all the time eyed
her with his quiet, observing glance, that made her exclaim: "What a
wise-looking colt!"
"He is like an old horse," said Mr. Harry. "When he hears a sudden
noise, he stops and looks all about him to find an explanation."
"He has been well trained," said Miss Laura.
"I have brought him up carefully," said Mr. Harry. "Really, he has been
treated more like a dog than a colt. He follows me about the farm and
smells everything I handle, and seems to want to know the reason of
things.
"Your mother says," replied Miss Laura. "that she found you both asleep
on the lawn one day last summer, and the colt's head was on your arm."
Mr. Harry smiled and threw his arm over the colt's neck. "We've been
comrades, haven't we, Fleetfoot? I've been almost ashamed of his
devotion. He has followed me to the village, and he always wants to go
fishing with me. He's four years old now, so he ought to get over those
coltish ways. I've driven him a good deal. We're going out in the buggy
this afternoon, will you come?"
"Where are you going?" asked Miss Laura.
"Just for a short drive back of the river, to collect some money for
father. I'll be home long before tea time."
"Yes, I should like to go," said Miss Laura, "I will go to the house and
get my other hat."
"Come on, Fleetfoot," said Mr. Harry. And he led the way from the
pasture, the colt following behind with me. I waited about the veranda,
and in a short time Mr. Harry drove up to the front door. The buggy was
black and shining, and Fleetfoot had on a silver-mounted harness that
made him look very fine. He stood gently switching his long tail to keep
the flies away, and with his head turned to see who was going to get
into the buggy. I stood by him, and as soon as he saw that Miss Laura
and Mr. Harry had seated themselves, he acted as if he wanted to be off.
Mr. Harry spoke to him and away he went, I racing down the lane by his
side, so happy to think he was my friend. He liked having me beside him,
and every few seconds put down his head toward me. Animals can tell each
other things without saying a word. When Fleetfoot gave his head a
little toss in a certain way, I knew that he wanted to have a race. He
had a beautiful even gait, and went very swiftly. Mr. Harry kept
speaking to him to check him.
"You don't like him to go too fast, do you?" said Miss Laura.
"No," he returned. "I think we could make a racer of him if we liked,
but father and I don't go in for fast horses. There is too much said
about fast trotters and race horses. On some of the farms around here,
the people have gone mad on breeding fast horses. An old farmer out in
the country had a common cart-horse that he suddenly found out had great
powers of speed and endurance. He sold him to a speculator for a big
price, and it has set everybody wild. If the people who give all their
time to it can't raise fast horses, I don't see how the farmers can. A
fast horse on a farm is ruination to the boys, for it starts them racing
and betting. Father says he is going to offer a prize for the fastest
walker that can be bred in New Hampshire. That Dutchman of ours, heavy
as he is, is a fair walker, and Cleve and Pacer can each walk four and a
half miles an hour."
"Why do you lay such stress on their walking fast?" asked Miss Laura.
"Because so much of the farm work must be done at a walk. Ploughing,
teaming, and drawing produce to market, and going up and down hills.
Even for the cities it is good to have fast walkers. Trotting on city
pavements is very hard on the dray horses. If they are allowed to go at
a quick walk, their legs will keep strong much longer. It is shameful
the way horses are used up in big cities. Our pavements are so bad that
cab horses are used up in three years. In many ways we are a great deal
better off in this new country than the people in Europe; but we are not
in respect of cab horses, for in London and Paris they last for five
years. I have seen horses drop down dead in New York just from hard
usage. Poor brutes, there is a better time coming for them though. When
electricity is more fully developed, we'll see some wonderful changes.
As it is, last year in different places, about thirty thousand horses
were released from those abominable horse cars, by having electricity
introduced on the roads. Well, Fleetfoot, do you want another spin? All
right, my boy, go ahead."
Away we went again along a bit of level road. Fleetfoot had no
check-rein on his beautiful neck, and when he trotted, he could hold his
head in an easy, natural position. With his wonderful eyes and flowing
mane and tail, and his glossy, reddish-brown body, I thought that he was
the handsomest horse I had ever seen. He loved to go fast, and when Mr.
Harry spoke to him to slow up again, he tossed his head with impatience.
But he was too sweet-tempered to disobey. In all the years that I have
known Fleetfoot, I have never once seen him refuse to do as his master
told him.
"You have forgotten your whip, haven't you Harry?" I heard Miss Laura
say, as we jogged slowly along, and I ran by the buggy panting and with
my tongue hanging out.
"I never use one," said Mr. Harry; "if I saw any man lay one on
Fleetfoot, I'd knock him down." His voice was so severe that I glanced
up into the buggy. He looked just as he did the day that he stretched
Jenkins on the ground, and gave him a beating.
"I am so glad you don't," said Miss Laura. "You are like the Russians.
Many of them control their horses by their voices, and call them such
pretty names. But you have to use a whip for some horses, don't you,
Cousin Harry?"
"Yes, Laura. There are many vicious horses that can't be controlled
otherwise, and then with many horses one requires a whip in case of
necessity for urging them forward.
"I suppose Fleetfoot never balks," said Miss Laura.
"No," replied Mr. Harry; "Dutchman sometimes does, and we have two cures
for him, both equally good. We take up a forefoot and strike his shoe
two or three times with a stone. The operation always interests him
greatly, and he usually starts. If he doesn't go for that, we pass a
line round his forelegs, at the knee joint, then go in front of him and
draw on the line. Father won't let the men use a whip, unless they are
driven to it."
"Fleetfoot has had a happy life, hasn't he?" said Miss Laura, looking
admiringly at him. "How did he get to like you so much, Harry?"
"I broke him in after a fashion of my own. Father gave him to me, and
the first time I saw him on his feet, I went up carefully and put my
hand on him. His mother was rather shy of me, for we hadn't had her
long, and it made him shy too, so I soon left him. The next time I
stroked him; the next time I put my arm around him. Soon he acted like a
big dog. I could lead him about by a strap, and I made a little halter
and a bridle for him. I didn't see why I shouldn't train him a little
while he was young and manageable. I think it is cruel to let colts run
till one has to employ severity in mastering them. Of course, I did not
let him do much work. Colts are like boys--a boy shouldn't do a man's
work, but he had exercise every day, and I trained him to draw a light
cart behind him. I used to do all kinds of things to accustom him to
unusual sounds. Father talked a good deal to me about Rarey, the great
horse-tamer, and it put ideas into my head. He said he once saw Rarey
come on a stage in Boston with a timid horse that he was going to
accustom to a loud noise. First a bugle was blown, then some louder
instrument, and so on, till there was a whole brass band going. Rarey
reassured the animal, and it was not afraid."
"You like horses better than any other animals, don't you, Harry?" asked
Miss Laura.
"I believe I do, though I am very fond of that dog of yours. I think I
know more about horses than dogs. Have you noticed Scamp very much?"
"Oh, yes; I often watched her. She is such an amusing little creature."
"She's the most interesting one we've got, that is, after Fleetfoot.
Father got her from a man who couldn't manage her, and she came to us
with a legion of bad tricks. Father has taken solid comfort though, in
breaking her of them. She is his pet among our stock. I suppose you know
that horses, more than any other animals, are creatures of habit. If
they do a thing once, they will do it again. When she came to us, she
had a trick of biting at a person who gave her oats. She would do it
without fail, so father put a little stick under his arm, and every time
she would bite, he would give her a rap over the nose. She soon got
tired of biting, and gave it up. Sometimes now, you'll see her make a
snap at father as if she was going to bite, and then look under his arm
to see if the stick is there. He cured some of her tricks in one way,
and some in another. One bad one she had was to start for the stable the
minute one of the traces was unfastened when we were unharnessing. She
pulled father over once, and another time she ran the shaft of the sulky
clean through the barn door. The next time father brought her in, he got
ready for her. He twisted the lines around his hands, and the minute she
began to bolt, he gave a tremendous jerk, that pulled her back upon her
haunches, and shouted, 'Whoa!' It cured her, and she never started
again, till he gave her the word. Often now, you'll see her throw her
head back when she is being unhitched. He only did it once, yet she
remembers. If we'd had the training of Scamp, she'd be a very different
animal. It's nearly all in the bringing up of a colt, whether it will
turn out vicious or gentle. If any one were to strike Fleetfoot, he
would not know what it meant. He has been brought up differently from
Scamp.
"She was probably trained by some brutal man who inspired her with
distrust of the human species. She never bites an animal, and seems
attached to all the other horses. She loves Fleetfoot and Cleve and
Pacer. Those three are her favorites."
"I love to go for drives with Cleve and Pacer," said Miss Laura, "they
are so steady and good. Uncle says they are the most trusty horses he
has. He has told me about the man you had, who said that those two
horses knew more than most 'humans.'"
"That was old Davids," said Mr. Harry; "when we had him, he was courting
a widow who lived over in Hoytville. About once a fortnight, he'd ask
father for one of the horses to go over to see her. He always stayed
pretty late, and on the way home he'd tie the reins to the whip-stock
and go to sleep, and never wake up till Cleve or Pacer, whichever one he
happened to have, would draw up in the barnyard. They would pass any
rigs they happened to meet, and turn out a little for a man. If Davids
wasn't asleep, he could always tell by the difference in their gait
which they were passing. They'd go quickly past a man, and much slower,
with more of a turn out, if it was a team. But I dare say father told
you this. He has a great stock of horse stories, and I am almost as bad.
You will have to cry 'halt,' when we bore you."
"You never do," replied Miss Laura. "I love to talk about animals. I
think the best story about Cleve and Pacer is the one that uncle told me
last evening. I don't think you were there. It was about stealing the
oats."
"Cleve and Pacer never steal," said Mr. Harry. "Don't you mean Scamp?
She's the thief."
"No, it was Pacer that stole. He got out of his box, uncle says, and
found two bags of oats, and he took one in his teeth and dropped it
before Cleve, and ate the other himself, and uncle was so amused that he
let them eat a long time, and stood and watched them."
"That _was_ a clever trick," said Mr. Harry. "Father must have forgotten
to tell me. Those two horses have been mates ever since I can remember,
and I believe if they were separated, they'd pine away and die. You have
noticed how low the partitions are between the boxes in the horse
stable. Father says you wouldn't put a lot of people in separate boxes
in a room, where they couldn't see each other, and horses are just as
fond of company as we are. Cleve and Pacer are always nosing each other.
A horse has a long memory. Father has had horses recognize him, that he
has been parted from for twenty years. Speaking of their memories
reminds me of another good story about Pacer that I never heard till
yesterday, and that I would not talk about to any one but you and
mother. Father wouldn't write me about it, for he never will put a line
on paper where any one's reputation is concerned."
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