The first place I can remember well was a large, pleasant meadow with a pond of clear water in it. In the daytime I ran by my mother’s side, and at night I lay down close to her.
There were six young colts in the meadow with me. We galloped round and round the field together. Sometimes the play was rough, because they often bit and kicked.
One day, when there was a lot of kicking, my mother called me to her.
“The colts who live here are good colts,” she said, “but they are cart-horse colts, and they have not learned manners. You come from a good family, and I think you have never seen me kick or bite. I hope you will grow up gentle and good. Do your work with a good will, lift your feet up well when you trot, and never bite or kick, even in play.”
I have never forgotten my mother’s advice. Her name was Duchess, but our master often called her Pet.
Our master, Farmer Grey, was a good, kind man. When my mother saw him at the gate, she neighed with joy and trotted up to him. He patted her and said, “Well, old Pet, and how is your little Darkie?” I was a dull black, so he called me Darkie. Then he gave me a piece of bread, and sometimes he brought a carrot for my mother.
A ploughboy called Dick sometimes came into our field to pick blackberries. When he had eaten enough, he threw stones and sticks at the colts to make us gallop. Sometimes a stone hurt us.
One day the master saw him from the next field. He jumped over the hedge, caught Dick by the arm and hit him hard on the ear.
“Bad boy!” he said. “Bad boy, to chase the colts! This is not the first time, but it will be the last. Take your money and go home. I shall not want you on my farm again.”
So we never saw Dick any more. Old Daniel, the man who looked after the horses, was just as gentle as our master, so we were lucky.