‘By the sound,’ said my mother; ‘I don’t think they ever found out what the hollow was—but there it was, as the uneven ground will testify. Giles afterwards did me the credit to tell his master that I had pulled up, and my doing so was considered to be remarkably clever, but I thought nothing of it.’
‘Giles must be very, very stupid,’ I remarked.
‘Not more than most men,’ said my mother; ‘but they are very clever at some things—they build houses, make carts and harness; but still they are inferior to us in many things. Now there is Mr. Martin’s Boxer, who is very clever indeed; you know Mr. Martin?’
‘The farmer who drinks so?’ I said.
‘That’s the man,’ rejoined my mother. ‘He goes every Saturday to market, and returns home in a state of helpless intoxication; he doesn’t know the way home a bit, but Boxer brings him safely to the door, along the dark roads, and through the narrow lanes, much better than any man could do, and yet that fellow Martin—I cannot call him anything less—very often beats Boxer most cruelly.’
‘I am sure he ought to be kicked,’ I said indignantly.
‘Duty forbids, my dear child,’ replied my mother; ‘a proper-minded horse never kicks one who is appointed to be his master; but some kick and bite too; many of these are naturally bad, but I am certain that most of them are made bad through ignorant and cruel training. But even that is no excuse; if man forgets his duty to the horse, the horse never ought to forget his duty to man: remember this, my child, act up to it, and you won’t regret it in your old age.’
I promised to remember, and although I was young and therefore rather thoughtless, I really took this lesson to heart, and found it of excellent service to me throughout my varied life.
It is not my intention to dwell upon my early days, but I must say a few words more about the paddock—the dear old paddock where I first breathed the pure air. Ah! I can see it now, and would that I was there. I can see the narrow peaceful stream gliding away from the water-mill, as if in calm satisfaction of having at least for the time performed its duty. I hear the murmur of the wheel as it turns and turns, now in the shadow, now in the sunlight; and the lark’s song is in my ear again, and I smell the sweet-scented clover in the field, and the mignonette growing by the cotter’s garden gate; and I see the sloping roof of the old farm-house peeping out from the ivy clinging lovingly to its walls. Oh, home of the spring-time of my life, it is all before my mind. But these eyes of mine shall never see thee more, nor shall my ears be charmed again with the hum of the bee, the song of the lark, or the murmur of the water-wheel. It is all over now. But let me not anticipate, or waste time in useless regrets, for I have a long story before me and but a short time to tell it in.
To resume. When I was about five months old, another mare and foal were put into the paddock. The mare was an old acquaintance of my mother, and the two were soon gossiping together; but the foal was of course a stranger to me. He informed me that his name was Rip, and I told him—what I might have told my readers before—that Mr. Bayne had named me Blossom. This introductory business over, we became excellent friends, and capered about the paddock in fine style. Rip was a better looking foal than I was—he was better bred, and had I believe something of the race-horse in him; he told me that his great-grandfather, on his mother’s side, had nearly won a big race once, and this Rip seemed to be very proud of. I felt sorry for him on account of this weakness—it was so much like a man to be proud of such a ridiculous thing.