I saw a great deal of trouble among the horses in London, and much of it could have been prevented by a little common sense. We horses do not mind hard work if we are treated fairly.
It often hurt me to see how the little ponies were used. Once I saw a little grey pony with a thick mane and a pretty head, so like Merrylegs that I wanted to neigh to him. He was doing his best to pull a heavy cart, while a rough boy whipped him. Could it be Merrylegs? But Mr Blomefield had promised never to sell him.
The butchers’ horses always went very fast, and one day I learned why. We were waiting next to a butcher’s shop when a butcher’s cart came racing up. The horse was tired out. The butcher came out of the shop and turned angrily to his son, who had been driving it.
“How many times must I tell you not to drive like this? You ruined the last horse, and you will ruin this one too!”
The boy answered that it was not his fault. “You always say, ‘Be quick!’ One cook wants a leg of lamb in a quarter of an hour, another has forgotten to order the beef, and it’s hurry, hurry, all the time. If people would order their meat the day before, there would be no trouble!”
“I wish to goodness they would,” said the butcher. “But who ever thinks of a butcher’s horse? Now take him in and look after him well. He does not go out again today.”
But not all boys are cruel. A young boy came up our street with vegetables. He had an old pony, not very handsome, but the most cheerful little thing I ever saw. The pony followed him like a dog and trotted off without a whip or a word. Jerry called the boy “Prince Charlie”, because he said he would be a king of drivers one day.
There was an old man, too, with a little coal cart. He and his old horse went along the street like two good partners who understood each other. The horse stopped by himself at the right doors and always kept one ear turned towards his master. Jerry said it was good to see how happy an old horse could be with a poor master.