HORSES
[XXXVII.—Dolly's Day Off]
I wonder if any scientist has figured out the exact properties of blue grass. I don't remember seeing anything on the subject, but I am going to look it up, for blue grass hay seems to have food qualities that are not suspected by ordinary farmers. Besides being hay it must have the protein content, fat, starch and all other things that are to be found in a ration of alfalfa, rolled oats, oilcake and condition powders. It seems to be as potent as that brand of old English ale of which it was said that a quart contained "meat, drink and a night's lodging." Anyway, our dowager driver has had nothing but blue grass to eat all winter, and instead of developing "that tired feeling" as spring approaches she is so full of "pep" that she is teaching mischief to her own colts. Of course, she hasn't had much to do this winter, having convinced us that trotting was too great a strain on her constitution, and that even walking must be indulged in cautiously and slowly. In short, she had managed by her conduct in the harness to have all the driving done by the other horse, which is a willing if rough-gaited traveller. As we couldn't spend a whole day on the road when it became necessary to go to the village we stopped trying to use the old malingerer. And it is not that she is so old, for she isn't. But whenever the harness was put on her back she seemed to develop sleeping sickness or some other obscure ailment, so we gave up using her except for farm work. But blue grass will out, and now we have fathomed her deep duplicity. She has simply been imposing on our good nature and there are strenuous days ahead for her.
A couple of days ago she and her colts were turned out for a run while the chores were being attended to. They seemed to enjoy their freedom and galloped around the field until they appeared to be tired. By the time the chores were done they were all standing at the barnyard gate, waiting to be let through, and I suspected nothing. When I opened the gate I reached for Dolly's halter, but she wheeled in her tracks and let fly at me with both heels. At the same instant the two-year-old crowded up and I caught him instead. I led him to the stable door and started him in and then turned to head off his mother, who had started towards the lane. Instantly she squealed and started towards the road with the yearling at her heels. The two-year-old heard her and popped out of the stable.
A moment later the three of them were off towards the road, where the gate had been left open on account of the snowdrifts. Not suspecting anything more than an ordinary frolic, I stood by the stable and whistled for them and called, "Cob Dolly" in my most seductive tones. But it was useless. When they reached the road they rushed north until checked by the drifts. Then they stopped, wheeled round and rushed south, passing the gate as if they had no interest in it. Before reaching the corner they slowed up. I whistled coaxingly and they stopped to look back. At this critical point a man with a horse and buggy turned the corner and started south. At once the three truants started after him, Dolly in the lead, with her tail in the air. I watched until they were almost a mile away, and then harnessed the other horse, conscripted a boy into active service and started in pursuit of the runaways. By the time we reached the road they were nowhere in sight, having turned a corner about a mile away. The chase was now on in earnest.
When we reached the corner we saw the frisky trio nosing along the road and moving slowly to the east. Approaching cautiously as near as we dared the boy started on a wide circuit through a wheat field so as to get ahead of them. To any casual observer it would appear that he was cutting across the field towards the village to the north, but Dolly is no mean tactician herself, and she was not to be fooled. Before he had time to swing towards the road she snorted defiance and galloped away, with the colts at her heels. The boy came back to the road, climbed into the buggy, and we started a stern chase. Presently the three turned in at an open gate, and hope revived. If I could only get past that gate we could head them off. But the farmer whose property they had invaded thought he would help by "sicking" the dog on them. I drove wildly, but it was no use. They beat me to the gate and raced along the road ahead of me.
At this point I released about seven thousand calories of language, but it didn't help any. It merely raised my personal temperature to about one hundred and four. With tails up they galloped along until they came to a little road that cut across a gore that had been left by the original surveyors of the township. I saw a chance, and sent the boy across the fields to head them off. As the little road had rail fences on both sides it was choked with snowdrifts, so it looked as if this manœuvre would work. They stopped, and the boy climbed over the fence ahead of them. In the meantime I drove along until I had passed the little road and took up a strategic position where I could head them off and start them towards home as the boy drove them back. Alas for the vanity of human wishes! The mail carrier had let down the fence a few rods down the little road so as to avoid the drifts by crossing through a field. Dolly saw the opening and took advantage of it at once. Into the field they went.
I admit that it was a beautiful sight to see them cavort around that ploughed field. It reminded me of a passage in Mazeppa:
"They stop, they snort, they sniff the air,
Gallop a moment here and there,
Approach, retire, wheel round and round,
Then plunging back with sudden bound,
They snort, they foam, neigh, swerve aside!"
But I didn't meditate on the poetry. Instead, I meditated fondly on a blacksnake whip we used to own when I was a boy. It had a weighted handle, and a long, snaky lash, and it was said that a man could draw blood with it. If I had that whip and had Dolly where I could get at her—— But it was no use thinking what I would do. Dolly had seen the gap opening out of the far side of the field on to another road and she led the way to it in high fettle. I believe they would have been going yet had not a kind-hearted farmer who saw the approaching cavalcade stepped out on the road and headed them off. This enabled the boy to get ahead of them with the buggy whip. He started them towards home and I managed to get them past my corner. Then they went into a pasture field through an open gate they had missed on their outbound trip. Noticing that they were hemmed in by a sheet of slippery ice I took an ear of corn that we had brought along, and by cornering her and tempting her at the same time I managed to catch her. But I didn't give her that ear of corn, even though I know one should never fool a horse in that way. I was afraid she might take it as a reward for her exploit.
When I led her back to the buggy I found that the rope we had taken along had been lost in the excitement, but I was too mad to say anything about it. For a dreary mile I led the brute along the road, and when we reached the home corner I let her go and laid the buggy whip along her ribs. Really there is little satisfaction in the cheap, light buggy whips they make nowadays. I merely raised dust from her hide as if I were beating a carpet, but I didn't feel that the cut I gave her had any sting to it. When we reached the lane gate she went right past it. She didn't intend to live with us any more. But another neighbour headed her off and we finally got her home. This morning I hitched her up to drive to the village. She started off slowly, picking her steps like a cat, but I began signalling to her with the buggy whip that I was looking for some of the speed she had shown the day before. Her hide is an excellent non-conductor, but I finally made an impression. She eventually caught my meaning and made a record trip to the village—I mean a record for her. Now what I am wondering is what she would do if she were fed on oats as well as blue grass. Anyway, I am going to cure her of the sleeping sickness, even if I have to invest in a blacksnake whip.
[XXXVIII.—The Colt]
When I got home from the city I found that a great event had happened. A colt had arrived, and although it was almost eleven o'clock on a cloudy night, there was great disappointment because I would not take a lantern and hunt through a fifteen-acre meadow to get a look at the little stranger. I was firm on the point, however, and denied myself the pleasure until the following morning. But we all went out to see the colt before breakfast, much to the distress of Dolly, who thought we had come to take him away and was ready to defend him with her life. She circled around him with her ears laid back, and when any one approached too near she unlimbered her heels for action. I foresee quite a job when she must be caught and put into harness again. Considering the matter from an artistic point of view, I fail to see why she should be so proud of her offspring. At present he seems to be all neck and legs—like the chickens they use to make boarding-house fricassees. His appearance reminded me of a remark I once heard: "We shall soon have a horse, for we already have the frame up." And besides being all legs, his legs are all joints. Still, "he has his mother's eyes," and I suppose that makes up for everything else. Real framers who have looked at him say that he is the makings of a fine horse, and they have seen lots of colts at his age that were more gangling and wobbly. Just now there is a fierce discussion raging as to what he shall be named, but there is a strong probability that he will be called "Brownie," though I am assured that in a few years he will be called "The Old Grey."
[XXXIX.—Horse Contrariness]
It is bad enough to have wells go dry, but to have a horse complicate matters by refusing to drink good, pure water when it is offered to her and threaten to die of thirst unless given access to one particular pond, is an added exasperation. One of the horses used to be quite well satisfied with the somewhat inferior water in a tank at the barn, but when it went dry she became as nifty and pernickety as a connoisseur of rare wines. Although she goes to the village almost every day she declines absolutely to drink village water—even pure, cold rock water drawn from an artesian well. In the same way she sniffs superior at the water from the house well—the water that we use every day for drinking and cooking. It is not good enough for her. But there is a somewhat disreputable pond at the other side of the wood lot and as far from the stable as the farm will allow, and from this pond she is willing to drink until she almost bursts. When she gets busy with it you would think she was half camel and trying to lay up a supply that would last at least four and a half days. The other horses are quite willing to take a refreshing drink from the Government drain when nothing else is handy, and this brought to light a strange peculiarity of the finicky one. She is willing to drink from the Government drain sometimes, but only from one particular spot in it. Lead her to any other part of the drain and she will stand over the water without tasting it, but let her get to her favourite spot and she will drink with relish even from a cow track. As the water in the drain is flowing steadily I cannot see how it can possibly taste better in one place than another. It is just a case of pure cussedness on the part of that tiresome horse. I have trouble enough doing the chores without catering to her whims. I am afraid that some day I shall get real peevish and let her go dry till she is willing to drink any decent water that is offered to her. I know there is a proverb which says that "You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink," but I think if I set my mind to it I can make her drink. Anyway, I have no intention of leading her to her favourite pond twice a day when the weather gets below zero.
[XL.—A Great Scheme]
I have just discovered a new and effective way of gathering burrs, which I take pleasure in passing along to farmers who may happen to read this column. Along the Government drain at the end of the young orchard there was a luxuriant growth of burdocks this year. I never saw them without making up my mind to cut them—some other time. They throve lustily, and as I was always a week behind my work I never found time to cut them, so in due season they ripened and developed a crop of especially clinging burrs. Occasionally I gathered a few of these burrs when hunting for rabbits, and Sheppy gathered quite a few, but not enough to lessen the supply very materially. But one day last week the two horses and two colts got into the orchard because some one had carelessly left the gate open. They had been there some time before they were discovered—but their work was done. They had gathered every burr in the orchard. Those that they did not get with their tails, manes and forelocks they got with their fetlocks. The youngest colt, having longer hair than the others, also managed to get quite a few on his sides. But between them they managed to make a complete job. I doubt if you could find a burr in the whole orchard, even if you made a careful search. When we got the brutes in the stable all we had to do was to pick the burrs off them and the job I had been intending to do all summer was done. At least it was in a fair way to being done. By much diligence we got the horses that must appear in public free from burrs, but the colts still carry some of their trophies. Still I think we should get the job finished soon if we have a few rainy days. Besides, the children can help on Saturdays. Real farmers may not approve entirely of this method of gathering the burrs on the farm, but I defy them to tell of any way in which the job can be done more thoroughly. A lively colt will gather more burrs in ten minutes than an industrious man can pick out of its mane and tail in a day. I offer this plan to farmers for what it is worth, and I wouldn't mind a bit if some of them called and helped me to pick the burrs from the colt's tail. He is inclined to kick.