Tinkle did not remember much about the stable at home on the farm, as he was hardly ever in it. Night and day, during the warm Summer, he stayed out in the green meadow, sleeping near his mother under a tree.
Tinkle was kicking the straw around in his stall, making a nice soft bed on which he could lie down and go to sleep, when George, who had gone into the house to get something to eat after driving with his father from the stock farm, came running out to the stable again.
“How’s my pony?” cried George. “How’s my Tinkle?”
Tinkle made a sort of laughing sound—whinnying—for he now knew George’s voice and he liked the little boy.
“Here’s something nice for you!” cried George.
“Oh, what are you going to give him?” asked Mabel, who had come home from school and who had also hurried out to see Tinkle.
“I’m going to give him some sugar,” answered George. “I took some lumps from the bowl on the table. Mother said I might.”
“Are you going to let him eat them out of your hand?” asked the little girl.
“Of course,” answered George.