“Hello!” called Jean, glancing up from pressing her cheek against one large satiny ear which she held against it.
“Thought I’d find you here, Honey; but I’ve got to hustle you off to school. Do you know what time it is?”
“Only half-past eight, and we’re having a beau-ti-ful time, aren’t we, Baltie, dear?”
“Hoo-hoo-hoo!” fluttered the delicate nostrils. Constance dropped down beside Jean and ran her hand along the warm, sleek neck. Another nicker acknowledged the caress, but the great horse did not stir. The clear morning sunshine flooded the paddock, Baltie’s little kingdom, and filtered through the gorgeous sugar maples overhead. The air was clear and crisp, the ground dry as though night dews were unknown. Off at the edge of the paddock a cricket shrilled his monotonous little song of the coming winter—a snug stable for the old horse and a warm fireside for his friends.
“You really must go now, dear,” urged Constance, rising to her feet after a final caress.
“Oh, dear, and he is so big and so warm and so soft and so good,” protested Jean. “But I s’pose I must. Come, Baltie, you’ve got to get up. Now! All together!” and placing her arms beneath the great neck Jean gave the preliminary heave-ho! necessary to start the old horse. Four years before it would have been impossible for him to get to his feet, but, as Mammy insisted:
“Charles Devon hadn’t been Massa Stark’s groom fer nothin’,” and she herself was a master hand at “mashargin” (Mammy’s pronunciation of massaging), a course of treatment to which Baltie had been most vigorously subjected, to the wonderful rejuvenation of his old bones and muscles.
A horse, even in his most nimble days of colthood, does not rise from a prone position with any great degree of grace; yet Baltie might have given points to some of his younger brethren. Up came his head, the slender forefeet were braced, there was a mighty heave and hoist, and Baltie stood upon all-fours, shaking clover leaves from his flanks.
“Now fly, Jean! Be sure to take the parcel for Mrs. Morgan. I’ll stop a moment with Baltie to make your peace for your abrupt departure,” said Constance, gayly, well knowing that Jean’s leave-taking from her pet was usually a prolonged ceremony.
Away hurried the little girl, leaving the older sister to spend the ensuing five minutes with the old horse, who nozzled and fussed over her, as only a petted horse knows how.