Maurice and the bay mare

by Henry Herbert Knibbs

I told him that I had dropped my whip, and thought I’d go back and get it.

“And don’t forget to pick up your hat, also,” he said. “I have known a gentle horse to shy at a hat in the road, him thinking, most like, that it was no place for a hat, anyhow.”

Again the mare went out of the yard, now, at a walk. Arrived at the memorable crossing, she sidled, but went on. And when we returned, about an hour later, it was evident that she had not forgotten the gravel truck. While she was doing her best to behave, she did not intend to be caught napping. Back at the stable, I sat down in Maurice’s old armchair, fetched from the tack room. Patiently he led the mare round and round the quadrangle, cooling her. He gave her a little water, then walked her again. Presently he fetched her up, took off her cooler, and went to work. Sponge, rag, brush, and water bucket—ten minutes, twenty minutes, and he was still at it. At last he led her to her stall, blanketed her, and gave her some hay.

Two of the grooms came from the stable, on their way to supper. Maurice puttered about, hanging up this tie rope and that halter, straightening the coolers on their racks, and tidying up the runway. Long shadows of early evening reached across the quadrangle. Quail called plaintively from the brushy hillside, west of the stable buildings. The sound of contented munching came from the stalls. Maurice fetched another chair from the tack room and sat down.

“Won’t you be late for supper?” I asked.

“It can wait. I’ll rest a bit.” He glanced at me, his head the least bit to one side, a twinkle of humor in his bright brown eyes. “The mare, now—and did you have a good ride?”

I nodded and tried to appear casual.

“’Twas good that you took her out the second time,” he said. “Good for the both of you.”

“It might have been worse,” I told him.

“And you need not be telling me that, sir. But you must have patience with her. She is young and green—a country girl, sir, with manners to learn and city ways and the like. She is not mean, nor is she a fool. It’s the wise head she has, and all the more reason for a man to be wise in the handling of her. You cannot fight her kind, nor can you let her be the boss. I would take her along at any gait, but I would not let her take me, when she had a mind to. ’Tis hard to explain, but if you have the feeling for a horse, ’tis but a matter of time and patience, and you’ll be riding as sweet a mare as ever I laid a brush to. You see, sir, I was not always a groom.”