Every young horse has to be broken to harness before it is fit for work. The freedom which it has been given in its youthful days must come to an end, and this it does not like. For a race-horse the breaking is done when it is about a year and a half old, but for a working or coach horse it is left until it is three or four years old.
The horse-breaker must be gentle and patient or he may spoil the temper of the horse. He must get the colt used to be touched and to feel the halter. After that he leads out the young animal with rein and halter. The next thing is to teach the colt the feel of the bit. A bit may be put into its mouth every day while it is in the stable, so as to accustom it to the feel of the metal. It is then taken out and driven with long reins fastened to the bit, and taught to move to the pull of the rein. After this the horse can be harnessed and put to work.
All this takes much time and trouble and it is only done with fine horses, other horses being broken with less pains. But if the animal is high-bred a quick breaking may spoil its courage or ruin its temper.
THE ARAB AND HIS HORSE
Would you not like to hear some more about the Arabian horse, the noblest and best of his race? I have told how all our best racers are of Arab stock and how dearly the Arab loves his horse. A child of the desert, often having to go long and far without food and under a blazing sun, the horse becomes very hardy.
It may be tied by all four legs to stakes set in the ground and kept there for many hours, the sun burning hot, yet if now its legs are set free and its master springs upon its back it is as full of life and spirit and as eager for a wild ride as if it had been taken fresh from the stable.
The comrade of its master by day and night, his support and comfort, ready to go without food or drink in his service, the horse and its rider grow more like two lovers than like master and servant. The poverty of the Arab may at times force him to sell his horse, but it is like selling a part of himself.
"My eyes! my soul! my heart!" he will say, "must I be forced to give thee a new master, and not keep thee myself? I am poor, my antelope; I brought thee up in my dwelling as a child; I did never beat or chide thee."
Then he will embrace the noble animal, wipe its eyes with his handkerchief, rub its glossy skin with his sleeve and remain long talking to it as if he was parting with his dearest child.