[XXXVIII.—The Colt]
When I got home from the city I found that a great event had happened. A colt had arrived, and although it was almost eleven o'clock on a cloudy night, there was great disappointment because I would not take a lantern and hunt through a fifteen-acre meadow to get a look at the little stranger. I was firm on the point, however, and denied myself the pleasure until the following morning. But we all went out to see the colt before breakfast, much to the distress of Dolly, who thought we had come to take him away and was ready to defend him with her life. She circled around him with her ears laid back, and when any one approached too near she unlimbered her heels for action. I foresee quite a job when she must be caught and put into harness again. Considering the matter from an artistic point of view, I fail to see why she should be so proud of her offspring. At present he seems to be all neck and legs—like the chickens they use to make boarding-house fricassees. His appearance reminded me of a remark I once heard: "We shall soon have a horse, for we already have the frame up." And besides being all legs, his legs are all joints. Still, "he has his mother's eyes," and I suppose that makes up for everything else. Real framers who have looked at him say that he is the makings of a fine horse, and they have seen lots of colts at his age that were more gangling and wobbly. Just now there is a fierce discussion raging as to what he shall be named, but there is a strong probability that he will be called "Brownie," though I am assured that in a few years he will be called "The Old Grey."
[XXXIX.—Horse Contrariness]
It is bad enough to have wells go dry, but to have a horse complicate matters by refusing to drink good, pure water when it is offered to her and threaten to die of thirst unless given access to one particular pond, is an added exasperation. One of the horses used to be quite well satisfied with the somewhat inferior water in a tank at the barn, but when it went dry she became as nifty and pernickety as a connoisseur of rare wines. Although she goes to the village almost every day she declines absolutely to drink village water—even pure, cold rock water drawn from an artesian well. In the same way she sniffs superior at the water from the house well—the water that we use every day for drinking and cooking. It is not good enough for her. But there is a somewhat disreputable pond at the other side of the wood lot and as far from the stable as the farm will allow, and from this pond she is willing to drink until she almost bursts. When she gets busy with it you would think she was half camel and trying to lay up a supply that would last at least four and a half days. The other horses are quite willing to take a refreshing drink from the Government drain when nothing else is handy, and this brought to light a strange peculiarity of the finicky one. She is willing to drink from the Government drain sometimes, but only from one particular spot in it. Lead her to any other part of the drain and she will stand over the water without tasting it, but let her get to her favourite spot and she will drink with relish even from a cow track. As the water in the drain is flowing steadily I cannot see how it can possibly taste better in one place than another. It is just a case of pure cussedness on the part of that tiresome horse. I have trouble enough doing the chores without catering to her whims. I am afraid that some day I shall get real peevish and let her go dry till she is willing to drink any decent water that is offered to her. I know there is a proverb which says that "You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink," but I think if I set my mind to it I can make her drink. Anyway, I have no intention of leading her to her favourite pond twice a day when the weather gets below zero.
[XL.—A Great Scheme]
I have just discovered a new and effective way of gathering burrs, which I take pleasure in passing along to farmers who may happen to read this column. Along the Government drain at the end of the young orchard there was a luxuriant growth of burdocks this year. I never saw them without making up my mind to cut them—some other time. They throve lustily, and as I was always a week behind my work I never found time to cut them, so in due season they ripened and developed a crop of especially clinging burrs. Occasionally I gathered a few of these burrs when hunting for rabbits, and Sheppy gathered quite a few, but not enough to lessen the supply very materially. But one day last week the two horses and two colts got into the orchard because some one had carelessly left the gate open. They had been there some time before they were discovered—but their work was done. They had gathered every burr in the orchard. Those that they did not get with their tails, manes and forelocks they got with their fetlocks. The youngest colt, having longer hair than the others, also managed to get quite a few on his sides. But between them they managed to make a complete job. I doubt if you could find a burr in the whole orchard, even if you made a careful search. When we got the brutes in the stable all we had to do was to pick the burrs off them and the job I had been intending to do all summer was done. At least it was in a fair way to being done. By much diligence we got the horses that must appear in public free from burrs, but the colts still carry some of their trophies. Still I think we should get the job finished soon if we have a few rainy days. Besides, the children can help on Saturdays. Real farmers may not approve entirely of this method of gathering the burrs on the farm, but I defy them to tell of any way in which the job can be done more thoroughly. A lively colt will gather more burrs in ten minutes than an industrious man can pick out of its mane and tail in a day. I offer this plan to farmers for what it is worth, and I wouldn't mind a bit if some of them called and helped me to pick the burrs from the colt's tail. He is inclined to kick.