When he finished grooming me he smiled as I went in and nosed over the hay in my rack.
"Fuss-box, eh!" he said. "I thought so. What about some nice warm gruel?"
How I pricked up my ears and whinnied at this.
"Then come up to the barn kitchen," he said, and off we started.
He led the way round the big barn to a room in the carriage house. There was an electric stove here and he soon had water heating and was making me the nicest mess of oatmeal gruel I ever tasted. What a clever man he was! He could do anything, even to the making of good gruel, and I lifted my dripping muzzle from the basin and gave him a grateful look.
"All right, Prince," he said, patting me, "you'd do as much for me if you could. Now go put yourself to bed. I must wash up. 'Leave pots and pans as you find them'—Rule 8, Devering Farm."
I made him a bow, which he did not see, as he was washing his dishes, then I paced thoughtfully to my cabin. This was a remarkable place. There was something in the air here that made a pony feel happy all the time. The master and mistress were kind, and though the children were a bit lively and quarrelsome, they were all right at bottom. I should like it here. I was glad I had been brought up to this wildwood place for this dear new young master, and I glanced toward the room where he was sleeping.
How amazed he would be when he found out that his mother was not dead. All young things love their mothers and cling to them. Even I, middle-aged pony, remember my mother's lovely care and how she would put her little body between me and danger.
Once an angry bull ran at us and gored her painfully before the men drove him away. She didn't care. She had saved my young skin. Mothers are certainly very comfortable things, and at this point in my thoughts I fell asleep and dreamed I was a foal again running beside this same dear wee mother over the fields of the beautiful estate on Long Island where I was brought up.