“Men are queer,” went on Dapple Gray. “They’ll build a big fire in a house so the house almost burns up, and then they’ll make us horses run like mad to draw water to put it out. I never could understand it.”
Of course Dapple Gray did not know that the house caught fire by accident and that it had to be put out for fear other houses near it might burn.
“And so you ran on, even if your legs were cut?” asked Tinkle’s father.
“Oh, yes, of course,” replied Dapple Gray. “The cuts hurt me, but when I got back to the stable the firemen put some cooling salve on the wounds and bound my legs up with white rags so they felt better.”
“Well, I don’t believe I’d like that,” said Tinkle’s mother. “Life is too exciting in the city. I like it best in this quiet country meadow, where you can eat grass whenever you like, or rest in the shade when you are tired.”
“Look at those ponies having fun down there,” said another horse, pointing with his nose toward the group that was playing tag. “I remember when I was young I liked to play that way.”
“Is Tinkle there?” asked the pony’s father. “He is one of the best taggers I’ve ever seen. When he grows a little bigger he’ll be a fine racer, I think.”
Tinkle’s mother looked toward where the ponies were running about, touching one another with their hoofs or noses, or switching at one another with their frisky tails.