"Race me to the house, Prince Fetlar," she said and off she started on her own young hoofs.
Of course I let her beat me and kept behind watching her long black hair flapping up and down in the wind, for the ribbon had come off. However, I came in a close second when she pulled up in front of her own home.
A voice from the veranda said, "Late again, my daughter. No pocket money this week."
"Ah! Daddy," she said in a wheedling voice.
"Rules must be kept, and wild girls must be broken," he replied gaily, "and poor Dad must be sacrificed on the altar of family affection," and he laid a hand on her head.
"Oh! dear," she said quickly, then she repeated in a rapid voice, "every boy and every girl on coming home from a ride must give his or her mount a rub-down. Rule of the house number three. I'm sorry I'm so late, Dad."
"Go face your mother," he returned, "she's in a fine state about you. No girl must be outside the gates of Devering Farm after dark. Rule six—Come on your highness," and cheerily whistling he led the way to my log cabin.
There was no light in my little home, so he hung up an electric torch, and when he found my brushes he asked me to come outside. The grounds were beautifully illuminated by globes on high poles and he whistled and rubbed till I was in a glow all over.
Here was a man that understood grooming a pony. Oh! there is such a difference in hands—tough hands, harsh hands, impatient hands and cruel hands, all affect a pony's temper. On the other hand if at the end of a hard day nice kind understanding hands smooth your body and comfort your pony soul, you go to bed so happy.