Then there were the drivers from town who had never owned a horse. They seemed to think a horse was a kind of steam engine, only smaller: if they had paid for it, it must go as far and as fast as they liked, uphill or downhill, on good roads or bad. They never got out to walk up a steep hill, and they turned corners as if there were no right side or wrong side of the road.
One spring evening Rory and I were coming home at dusk. Rory usually went with me when a pair was wanted, and a good, honest fellow he was. Our road turned sharply to the left, and we kept close to the hedge on our own side. Then I heard a horse and a small carriage coming fast down the hill. The hedge was high, and I could see nothing. The next moment they were on top of us. I was next to the hedge, so Rory took the full force of the crash. One of the wooden poles of the other carriage went right into his chest, and he staggered back with a cry I shall never forget. It was a horse from our own stables, and its careless driver had cut the corner.
It took a long time for Rory’s wound to heal, and then he was sold to pull coal carts. What that is like, up and down steep hills, only horses know.
My next partner was a mare called Peggy, strong, pretty and very willing, but with a worried look in her eye. She had a strange pace: partly a trot, partly a canter, and then a little jump forward. When we got home, I asked her why she went like that.
“I know my paces are bad,” she said sadly, “but what can I do? My legs are so short that I can’t take long steps like you. Men want to go so fast, and if you can’t keep up with the other horses, it’s whip, whip, whip all the time. My first master was never in a hurry and never whipped me. But then I was sold to a farmer who only cared about going fast, and I learned to make that little jump to keep up. It will be the same everywhere for me. I wish my legs were longer!”
I could not comfort her. Some time later she was sold to two ladies who drove themselves and wanted a safe, gentle horse. Afterwards I sometimes met her in the country, looking as happy as a horse could be.
After her came a young horse who had lost a good place because he shied at things on the road. I asked him why he did it.
“I was timid when I was young,” he said. “If I saw something strange, I turned to look at it, because with blinkers you can’t see what a thing is unless you turn your head. Then my master always whipped me, and that made me more afraid. How can I know what is dangerous, if I am never allowed to get used to anything? I am never afraid of what I know.”
I wished every young horse had masters as good as Farmer Grey and Squire Gordon.
Sometimes we had good drivers too. One morning a tall gentleman looked at my bit and bridle and moved my collar to see if it fitted comfortably.
“Do you think this horse needs a curb?” he asked the stableman.
“I would say he goes just as well without it, sir. He has a very good mouth.”
“Then please take it off. A comfortable bit is a great thing on a long journey, isn’t it, old fellow?” And he patted my neck.
With a light touch of the rein we were off. I arched my neck and went at my best pace. The man behind me knew how a good horse should be driven, and it was like old times again. He liked me so much that he persuaded my master to sell me to a friend of his who wanted a safe, pleasant horse for riding. And so, in the summer, I was sold to Mr Barry.