One morning in May, a man came from Squire Gordon’s to take me away. My master said, “Goodbye, Darkie. Be a good horse, and always do your best.” I could not say goodbye, so I put my nose into his hand. He patted me kindly, and I left my first home.
Squire Gordon’s house stood in a large park next to the village of Birtwick. The groom put me into a fine loose box, a large stall where a horse is not tied up. He gave me some very nice oats, patted me and went away.
In the stall next to mine stood a little fat grey pony with a thick mane and a pretty head.
“How do you do?” I said. “What is your name?”
“My name is Merrylegs,” he said, holding his head up. “I am very handsome. I carry the young ladies on my back. Are you going to live next door to me? I hope you are good-tempered. I do not like anyone next door who bites.”
Just then a horse’s head looked over from the stall beyond. It was a tall chestnut mare with her ears laid back.
“So it is you who have turned me out of my box,” she said. “It is a very strange thing for a colt like you to turn a lady out of her own home.”
“I beg your pardon,” I said, “I have turned no one out. The man who brought me put me here. And I am not a colt; I am four years old. I want to live in peace.”
“Well,” she said, “we shall see.”
In the afternoon, when she was out, Merrylegs told me all about it.
“Ginger has a bad habit of biting,” he said. “When she was in the loose box, she bit James in the arm and made it bleed. So Miss Flora and Miss Jessie were afraid to come into the stable. I missed them very much. I hope they will come again now, if you do not bite.”
I told him I never bit anything but grass, hay and oats.
“She says no one was ever kind to her, so why should she not bite?” said Merrylegs. “If that is true, she must have been badly treated before she came here. John and James do all they can for her. I am twelve years old, and I can tell you there is not a better place for a horse in all the country than this.”