She was out of breath and she stood still, leaning against a side fence watching that sunlit group, mother-horse, child, newborn dog—even the wonder of riding the air with a whisper on the back of a carrier-wave paling beside a rare moment in earth’s picture gallery.
All the Long Pasture was a picture gallery that morning, dramatic representations of girlish life and pluck, vivid horseplay.
Presently, while Donnie, resenting the babying, snatched his head away and fed Revel with a lump of sugar, instead, from his tiny breast pocket, Pemrose resumed her game of catch.
This time Revelation, being a good horse if gay, allowed himself to be coaxed. He lessened the ten-foot barrier to five, sniffing at the dribbing oats. In a trice the girl had him by the forelock. With her left hand on his long head she was pressing that down until her foot was on his neck—otherwise her elbow—while with her right hand feeding him the oats.
When that was gone she slipped the halter over his nose, on to his obedient neck, buckled it—led him over to the fence, to saddle him.
But just as she had thrown that saddle on, before she could tighten the girths, her breath began to come thick and fast—very thick and fast.
Donnie having fed Revel with a sweet lump and jerked his curls from her, with a remonstrating: “You don’t t’ink hair’s hay; do you?” let her gentle head find his pocket for herself—and extract a second lump of sugar.
Somebody was watching the trick—Cartoon! Cartoon not destined to be ridden to-day; though not an outlaw, he was a churl, with his stubborn Roman nose, flaring nostrils, fiery breath, his sharp triangular face—almost a hatchet face.
Cartoon was creeping slyly through the pasture grass, with a low snort, his head not only high, as Revelation carried his, but the chin in a little, touching his chest—and the greedy meaning there.
“Don’t give Revel any more sugar now, Donnie-boy! She’s had enough.” Una was drawing her horse away. “Here! show me the puppy. Have you one for me—I’d like a dog?”