Skewbald, the New Forest Pony

by Allen W. Seaby

On a fine Sunday, one sees the weekly wash drying and bleaching on the bushes, children playing with the dogs, the women cooking and the men in their best clothes. Many before and after Borrow, looking at the gipsy, have been impressed by his fixity of type, his adherence to his mode of life in a country gradually losing its open spaces, and maintaining himself in face of restrictive and sometimes oppressive regulations. To many the standing marvel is that he can live at all outdoors, not only in summer heat, but when frost is in the earth, or when the ground shakes like a quagmire and the ditches run like rivers. But nowadays millions of men who came through the war remember how in the course of their training, or under the actual conditions of warfare, they slept outdoors without even a gipsy tent, by fair and foul, in wet and cold, and remember, too, their astonishment that they suffered no harm, and, bullets apart, thrived on the régime.

But the gipsy has this in common with the town dweller, that he, too, gets his living there; to the town he must go to sell his produce or manufacture, his flower or fern roots, his brooms, mats, baskets, etc., and therefore a cart of some sort is almost a necessity, and to draw the cart, a pony. The forest pony is thus of great importance to the forest gipsy; she is hardy, gets her own living, is cheap to buy when young, and is a source of wealth. Every forest gipsy is a potential breeder and dealer; the pony is at once his passion and his temptation. If he has no ponies to sell at the autumn sales, there is less money to tide over the winter.

Therefore the ponies wandering at will, unnoted by their owners, as free to wander as the wild creatures, have a great interest for the gipsy, who regards the products of the forest as his lawful tribute. The plover’s eggs, the rabbit, hedgehog and squirrel, the flowers and ferns, either supply him with food or put money in his pocket. But the pony is marked and tail-cut, plain signs that it is the acknowledged and registered property of its owner, and not to be appropriated with impunity. Of course, by far the greater number of gipsies are strictly honest in regard to ponies, having learned like the rest of us, from experience, that honesty is the best policy; but to some an unmarked yearling pony must be a temptation, when a branding-iron is always present in the shape of any iron bar handy, to be thrust in the fire kept constantly burning.

One autumn, on the edge of the forest just outside a sheltering wood a small encampment consisting of three gipsy tents and a caravan nestled. As night fell the noise of people talking and children playing ceased, for the gipsies go early to bed, and rise betimes. The evening meal had been eaten, the youngsters snuggled to sleep in corners, and only a few men and women sat around their fires smoking, for most had had a long day going to town to sell their wares, and were glad to seek repose.

Behind the tents, in a little blind lane with high hedges ending at a gate, a mare was tethered. She had been deprived of her foal and grieved noisily, whinnying loudly ever and again. Away on the moor ponies were grazing, and hearing the repeated call of the bereaved mother, they put up their heads for a moment. At last Skewbald, now a two-year-old, and another pony of the same age, a dull bay, could stand it no longer, and sidled away from the herd in the direction of the call. As they approached the silent tents, the bay whinnied, and the mare responded so appealingly that the two quickened their pace to a trot. A big lad, lounging by the fire in the nearest tent, looked out as they passed, and then crawled away silently.

Skewbald and his companion went right up to the mare, which tried hard to get away from her tether, whinnying repeatedly, so that the two-year-olds did not notice several dark figures creeping towards them in the obscurity of the ditch. But when a man stumbled, the two ponies made off up the lane, only to be brought up short by the gate. Their pursuers, close at their heels, threw themselves at their necks, and soon the two were haltered and secured.

An older man came out and examined the captives. Then in no measured terms he abused the captors for troubling to tie up a pony marked like the skewbald, an animal of such striking colour and pattern, and probably well known to commoner, keeper, and agister. It was as good as giving themselves up to the police to have it in their possession for a moment, and he ordered the crestfallen young fellows to release it at once. This was done, and, with a stripe on his flank to help him along, Skewbald was turned loose, and made off towards the herd. Then the man gave his attention to the bay, and pronounced him ordinary enough to keep. But what were the marks, if any? A lantern was brought, and the capitals C. F. were found on the shoulder. A bar was heated and it was not difficult to convert the marks into O. E., though much to the discomfort of the young bay. His tail marks were cut right away as well. Then it was mooted whether the pony should not be taken off at once, but this was pronounced against, as likely to arouse the suspicion of the police, if met with on the way. In a day or two a huckster would come along with a string of ponies, and among them the bay would not attract notice.

But unfortunately for the gipsies, the agister of the district, in tall hat with buckle in front, and green coat with brass buttons, happened to ride by next morning, on his way to clip the tails of some ponies lately caught in.

As he passed, he noticed a young bay tied up behind a tent. Now, the agister knew all the ponies of his district, and many others in the other districts as well. Ponies were a passion with him. He knew them not only by their brands and their colours, but by their shapes, gait, and size. A pony once seen by him was never forgotten, and he could recognize a wanted animal more than half a mile away. He paused and scrutinized the bay. Yes, that was Charles Finch’s two-year-old. He had known it since its birth, and could not be mistaken. Its tail was short, but not cut after the fashion of any of the three forest districts—in itself a suspicious circumstance. He went closer and read the letters O. E. No one he knew of in the forest used such a brand. He got off his pony and pressed his thumb in the lowest arm of the E, and the pony winced.

That was enough for the agister, who turned to several lowering but silent lads and men collected in a group. “Who claims this pony?” he asked. There was no answer. “I am positive it’s Charles Finch’s pony. I shall take it with me if no one objects;” and he tied the pony to his own, and trotted away.