HORSE TALES

SALLY.

If you take a short-horned cow, a limping calf, a few sheep, a swarm of fowls, a pig with a litter of eight, and an everyday lazy kind of horse, you have John Dobbin’s well-stocked farm.

One morning John woke up at five, bustled round the hen coop, gave an extra feed to the pigs, milked the cow, fed the limping calf, and then went into the stables.

“Now, Sally, old girl,” he said, making some fuss as he fed his old mare, “just keep your eye on things 6a bit. I’m goin’ round to Farmer Peckett. He’s in bed, bad with rheumatism, an’ I shan’t be back afore dinner.” So saying he took the halter from Sally’s neck, and let her roam about at will.

Sally left to herself felt glumpy.

“Now where’s the master gone off this morning,” thought she. “Farmer Peckett. I know no Farmer Peckett. It’s very queer his leaving us all alone. Something might go wrong while he’s away, and he can see to things a lot better than me. Just look! There’s that calf a limping among the lettuces. And that knock-kneed hen with her chirrupy brood scratching the carrots up as if she was seeking to-morrow. I do believe those bees mean to swarm, and no master here. I’ve watched him swarm ’em many a time, but I couldn’t manage it.”

Hen with her Chirrupy Brood.

8“If you’re not off about your business, you old gimmer,” as a long-nosed sheep looked through the hedge—“I’ll, I’ll— Now what do you want?” called out Sally, turning from the patient ewe to a fat, wheezy donkey coming up the garden path. “What brings you here this morning, Neddy?”

“He-haw!” said Neddy, rolling his tongue round and round, and giving a three-cornered look out of his left eye. “Thought I’d just see how you were getting on, Sal! But you do look prime.”

“Just be off about your business.”

“Beg your pardon, my lady. But if you have no objections I’ll just march myself off into the stable. I know Farmer Dobbin supplies you with good fodder.” And away went Neddy “he-hawing” for all he was worth, and 9frightening the chicks out of their poor little senses.

While Sally was looking after him, and marvelling at his cool impertinence, up came a tinker. “Pans to mend, kettles to mend, scraps of old iron,” he cried.

“What, Sally!” he called out cheerfully to her.

“He-haw!” bellowed Neddy.

“Where’s John Dobbin? Are ye carryin’ on the farm by yourself, Sally? Well, you’re a fine steed to place in front of any man’s castle! I’ll speak a word for ye when I see the general again. He’s sure to be wanting a new charger to carry him off to the wars soon. But I see you’re figgity, Sally, so I’ll bid you good-day. Pans to mend! Kettles to mend! Scraps of old iron!”

10“Mercy on us!” wailed the frightened creature, the perspiration dropping from her nose end. “How thankful I am to think he’s gone! If he’d walked into the kitchen, and master out, he’d have smoked up all his new baccy. When will it be twelve o’clock? Oh, but I don’t like looking after things. I will be glad when master comes home.” Because she felt relieved of anxiety a warm feeling spread all over Sally, and her poor old heart felt happy. Even Neddy’s ugly “he-hawing” failed to rouse her ire. So she fell to trotting about the garden in a silly kind of way. While Sally was frisking about in a happy-go-lucky fashion, up came a sailor.

“Morning,” he said, “fine time o’ year this.”

Sally looked sad.

“No one at home, eh? Where’s John Dobbin? Hasn’t left any message, eh! Stand out of the way and I’ll go into the house, and sit down till John comes. Bravo! my beauty,” stroking the limping calf, “you’re a fine mixed lot of customers I can see. Master John will be at the market I’ll be bound. It’s twenty year since John and me 12met. Won’t we have a fine time of it now. I hear he’s never married, n’more have I. Wait till he comes in, we’ll be spinning yarns till bed-time.”

All this time Sally was pawing at the cobbles with her hoof. “Well, you’re a cool hand to be sure,” thought she. “And he’s helping himself to my master’s baccy. Well, if that doesn’t beat all. I’ve got him in the kitchen at any rate, and if he isn’t quite quiet, he looks honest. I’d best be off and see how Neddy’s getting on, for he’s a first-class scamp if you like.” And away she trotted, seeing on the road that the bees were hard at work, for you will understand how this lazy old horse was most particular that everyone else but herself should be working. She did not like to see anything idle. If you notice, animals that have lived 13a long time with people learn to know their ways. And it may sound funny to you children, but I have often seen animals try and imitate their owners. So if any of you have a pet you must be careful and behave kindly before it, for then, at least, you will be setting a good example. And I would advise you to have nothing to do with a boy whose dog fears him, or with a girl who is not kind to her dollies.

“Now, where is Neddy?” said the weary mare, “for not a speck of him can I find. There’s every bit of fodder munched up—rakes and spades kicked about—yes, he’s been here sure enough. And there’s the brand new bucket stamped on. Whatever will Master say? This is keeping an eye on things till master comes back, isn’t it! Oh! dear me. I’ve got a run-a-gate donkey 14somewhere and a Jack Tar in the kitchen smoking my master’s baccy.”

“Bow-wow-wow!”

“What’s the matter now?” As Sally turned round she saw a sheep dog. “Oh? Ben, it’s you,” she cried. “I’m nearly worried out of my wits. For goodness’ sake do stop here, Ben, and keep guard till master comes back. There’s the bow-legged toppin’d hen wants keeping in her place, and that limping calf ought to be tethered. And Neddy ought to be sent home instead of stamping the fodder about and kicking the new bucket, and—there’s that sailor chap in the kitchen smoking my master’s baccy! Mercy on us! what’s that?” as a band struck up a gay tune. “It’s a travelling circus—no, it isn’t. My word, the whole village is up and our sailor gentleman is dancing a hornpipe! 15Thank goodness—there’s master coming! Whoever would have thought of things happening like this!”

“What cheer, John!” cried the sailor, extending his hand and running forward to meet his old friend. “How are ye, my hearty? What, don’t you know me, John? My old chum! Why, I’m Sam—surely!”

“It can’t be, but it is!” and the farmer’s voice became husky. “I’ve thought ye dead this many a year. So you’ve actually returned, Sammy!”

“To settle in the old country, and to pitch my tent alongside o’ yours, John.”

“Look here, you sailor man,” cried Sally, “master belongs to me. We run this farm between us, we do, and we want no hornpipy sailor to join us.”

“And where does this band come 16from?” asked the farmer. The musicians, let me say, were trumpeting and drumming for all they were worth.

“Well, I brought it with me from Jarmouth. Look here, my hearties,” he called out, “change the tune to ‘Auld lang Syne’ and we will all join in the chorus.”

Which everybody did. Even Neddy sat on his haunches and “he-hawed” his loudest, of course, lolling his tongue round as usual, and throwing three-cornered glances in all directions. The limping calf was touched and was suddenly seized with a racing fit; and the chickens, no doubt thinking that the end of the world had come, turned somersaults and fought battles in all directions.

Poor Sally groaned aloud. “Ah! this is the end of everything,” she 17said. “I’ve cared for, and worked for master for many a year, and now what between the sailor, the band, the chickens, the bees and Neddy—well!”

“I think the whole stock has taken leave of their senses,” said Farmer John. “Why, Sally, lass,” he said, looking upon his woe-begone horse, 18and patting her on the shoulder, “do you think, old girl, that I have forgotten thee? No, no! Now, my good people,” flinging a coin to the musicians, “I thank you for your music, and good-day to ye. Don’t you see that you are frightening my animals. Neighbours,” he cried, addressing the crowd, “good-day to ye also, and Sam, my man—quick march into the house. Adieu!” he cried to the departing crowd. “This sort of thing don’t quite suit country folk—now do it, Sally?”

And as he led the horse by the halter he whispered in her ear: “Now you needn’t go and be jealous, old girl. Sam shan’t put your nose out. You’ve been a good old servant to me, and you’re missis here, so keep your temper.”

19Sally stamped her feet.

“He says he’s come to retire with you, master,” she began, only John had walked away. “And oh!” winnied Sally, only John did not hear her, “after I’ve been missis ever so long, it’s hard to be supplanted by a hornpipy sailor!”

LELE.

“Have bought a first-class mount,” read out the vicar, from a telegram which he had just received. “There,” he said to his wife, “it’s done now—so Towser will have to go.”

“What, part with Towser? Poor old Towser,” spoke up Mrs. Dene.

“He’s so slow, and I have been indulgent too long already. Now, don’t make a fuss, my dear. I daresay you have grown fond of him, and so you will be of the new horse when it comes.”

That settled it.

Next morning soon after breakfast, the groom led a fine spirited mount 21up to the hall door. Up jumped the vicar from his seat.

“Ah! Lucy Lu! Now are you not pleased with my new purchase?” he cried.

“You are sure that horse is quiet, John?”

“Read the warranty.”

22“He doesn’t look steady like dear old Towser.”

“Please don’t bracket them together. They are two entirely different animals. This new horse is well bred, and but six years old; while Towser has not many good points and is aged.”

“You won’t send Towser away—now will you, John? for I’m sure this new horse will not suit. He’s got such a wicked eye.”

“My dear, what silly things you say. I can see you don’t like my new purchase, and I do,” said the vicar, emphatically.

“Morning, Hopkins.”

“Morning, sir.”

“Well, this appears to be a grand creature,” stroking the mane.

“Yes, sir,” said the groom.

23“I somehow fancied Grahame would choose well. He has a splendid head. Fine bone. Stands well. Splendid flank—got many good points, I notice—he’s not quite as sedate looking as our old pony.”

“Indeed he’s not, sir.”

“Well, we shall see. I’ll take him for a ride.”

And as his master rode away, “He’s a real bad’un that little horse is,” said Hopkins. “A reg’lar bad’un. Bought at a grand Repository, and quiet and sound, warranty says—a real varmint,” says I.

Now as Lele was stepping along, would it not be as well to tell you something of him, children? To begin with, he had been sold several times, changed masters more than once for something worse than disobedience. He 24was up to all kinds of tricks, could buck, kick, jib, in fact he could perform all manner of naughty tricks—yes, do all except do as he was bid.

So he looked this way and that, snorted, gave a bit of a jerk, just to rouse his new master, and than sighed. “Well, it’s come to a nice thing now,” he grunted, “me—a well-set-up sprightly hunter, knocked down at a sale for thirty pounds! Sold to an old parson. Humph! I’ve seen lots of parsons in the hunting field, but never thought I’d like to live with one. Now I know I shan’t. Wish I hadn’t thrown Lord Jim. Bless me! Changed my walk in life entirely, and however I shall take to being a goody-goody horse I don’t know. Suppose I shall have to eat second-rate oats till I grow old and wheezy.”

A gentleman who was riding along 25the road stopped to speak to the vicar.

“Hallo!” said Lele to the stranger’s mare. “How do! Fine morning.”

“Very,” said the sedate little grey mare.

“Not much doing here. Slow sort of place I should say, eh?”

“I don’t know what you mean? Have you just come to this neighbourhood?”

“Came last night. Slow train. Block in the line. A miserable journey.”

26“Do you think you will like the neighbourhood?”

“No.”

“Oh! you rude creature, I shan’t talk to you any more! Where do you come from, and whatever is the vicar doing with you?”

Lele took no notice. Presently he said:

“Does nobody hunt here?”

“Hunt? My master doesn’t, but people he knows do. I’m sure your master doesn’t.”

Lele groaned. “Well, however I’m going to suit goodness knows. I shall die of yawning and rust out before a month is over.”

“As I was saying,” said the vicar to his friend, “I think he is a perfect little horse. He is quiet, as you see, and I’m not likely to kill him with 27work. I just go my usual round, but I do like a well-bred horse. He’ll have a very easy time of it with me.” Lele groaned louder than ever.

“We have not stiff hills in this neighbourhood.”

Lele grew restive.

“And life is much the same all the year round.”

“Shall I bolt?” fumed Lele.

“I ride for an hour in the mor—”

“Look here, I can’t stand this. In all the homes I’ve had there’s been something to do. There’s been steeplechasing in Spring—hunting—”

“Why, the hounds are out,” called Mr. Dobson. He was riding a little way in front and could see over the hedge. “See! there’s the whip making for Cranstone Hill! Is he used to following the hounds?”

28“I don’t know—he does appear restive. Whoa-a then!”

“Do you hunt, Mr. Grey?”

“Oh, yes, but I haven’t indulged in such things for years.”

“Then you’d better get off—I wouldn’t trust that horse.” But the vicar had no time to get off, and another thing he did not mean to. He meant to stop on.

“It’s my opinion my master is not so simple as he looks,” thought Lele. “He’s been used to spurs he has. What a dig he did give me then. I shall have to try to unsettle him—for he is rather a heavy load to carry, and I mean to follow the hounds—”

“Tally ho!” rang out in the clear morning air as Lele bucked.

The vicar stuck on.

He shied.

29His master didn’t care.

He jibbed.

But he might have exploded if he liked, nothing short of an earthquake would have disturbed the vicar.

“I say, hold hard there,” yelled Mr. Dobson, “he’ll kill you.”

“No, he won’t.”

“You’d better get off.”

“Not if I know it.”

“You won’t, then, eh!” struck in 30Lele—“then here goes—” And, like a flash, over the hedge he went—in short, I may tell you he had galloped a field over, cleared a gate, forded a stream, broken through a copse, and then, Tally ho! he was with the hounds, close alongside the whip, and in a few minutes stood with his master, who was perspiring and mopping his face with his handkerchief, abashed at the attention his presence called forth, and stammering his thanks to the master of the hounds who handed him the brush.

“Allow me to congratulate you, good sir,” he said.

“Now, just look here,” interrupted Lele—only nobody noticed him—“that brush belongs to me. I followed the hounds, and as I couldn’t throw the vicar off, of course I had to bring him—much against his will—a fact, I 31assure you. Just stick that brush behind my ear, please. Why, Kiddy, is that you?”

“Lily!”

“Goodness me! Wonders will never cease, I own a vicar now—you know I was bundled off to a Repository after I had thrown Lord Jim.”

“He’s here.”

“Never!”

“But he is, sir! Here he comes riding that limping crocodile of a nag—don’t think he is benefited by the change—do you, Lele?” But before Lele could answer Lord Jim had discovered his late horse. He made up to the vicar as they were going home.

“Excuse me, sir,” he began, and then, “allow me to congratulate you on your horse.”

“What, another!” said the vicar.

32“I have just sold him.”

“That accounts for my possession—fact is I have just bought him.”

And then it all came out—Lord Jim repented parting with Lele, and although the good vicar said nothing, he thought, “Well, he’s certainly a bargain, but my parish will miss me if, every time I want a little trot out, my horse takes it into his head to follow the hounds.”

And how it came about I cannot tell you, children, but before the vicar got home he decided to let Lord Jim have his favourite back again.

“I repented it directly after. But you do look so stupid being thrown in the hunting field—it was the first time, you know.”

The vicar nodded—and Mrs. Grey chuckled when he came home, safe but very much shaken.

33“He’s far too much for you, John.”

“Yes, my dear, you are right.”

“Old Towser?”

“Shall remain.”

“And Lele?”

“Again belongs to Lord Jim.”

“It was a clear walk over that,” mused Lele as he crunched the well-grown 34oats in Lord Jim’s stables that night. “I never met my match till his reverence mounted me—I might have behaved ugly, but I’m pleased to think I didn’t throw the old gentleman. There’s ever so many runs in prospect, you say?”

“Five,” said Biddy.

“And I’m entered for next Spring steeplechases, so Tally ho! But I know—I’ll never throw Lord Jim again!”

SIMON.

Simon lay on the grass, thinking. He flicked a fly that was tickling. Although he was a most worthy horse, he was often troubled with very grand notions about himself and very poor thoughts concerning his neighbours.

36Day had not yet begun at Tower Tighe Farm. The stars had faded away, and the great warm sun was waking up the nestlings, waking them up to cry for food, and disturb folk generally, for everything was very quiet and still at Tower Tighe.

The owner, John Fairfax, was a spare man, very thin, with a grey straggly beard, and bright blue eyes. He possessed fierce-looking brows, and a very long nose. His wife was a fat little lady, who bustled about a great deal, and went round the farm saying kind things to everybody, and to Tony the fox-terrier in particular, for Tony was a thorough little scamp. He told old Simon one day, that missis was a deary, and behaved fine when she wasn’t walking. Then she was just like a lop-sided hour glass, so fat all round—save at the waist, which was thin, and she wobbled like a tee-totum.

SIMON.

37“If everything and everybody would only wake up,” moaned Simon, chafing at the stillness about him.

“Wake up. Arn’t I here,” called Spangles, the Rooster, as he proclaimed to the world “Cock-a-doodle-doo!”

“I’m glad to hear you say so,” snapped Simon.

“Top of the morning to you, sir,” said Spangles. “Don’t get crabby with your neighbours. Hi! there,” he called out, as he saw Tony racing after a rabbit.

“Never mind that nimble scratcher,” neighed Simon. “Come here and I will tell you something. I am going to the Mill—are you ready to join me?”

As Simon mentioned “Mill,” Tony stopped.

38“Rats live there,” he said to himself, “rats.”

“We can talk,” said Simon, seriously.

“Indeed,” said the sagacious dog.

And when they were on the high road bound for the Mill, Simon began:

“Tony, I’ve been considering.”

“Indeed!”

“You’re a decent little fellow.”

Tony blinked.

“I’ve been bothering about this a long time.”

“Never thought you bothered about anything. You’re such a quiet old chap, Si. But hurry up! Do! There’s a shrew waltzing along the road, and I’m getting impatient. Do be quick; I can’t go marching by your side in this procession-like fashion for ever and a day, now can I?”