Skewbald, the New Forest Pony

by Allen W. Seaby

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.