One day, when Ginger and I were standing alone in the shade, she asked me all about how I grew up, and I told her.
“Well,” she said, “if I had grown up like you, I might have had as good a temper as you. But now I don’t think I ever shall.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because nobody, horse or man, was kind to me when I was young. I was taken from my mother very young and put with other colts who cared nothing for me. The man who looked after us never gave me a kind word, and boys threw stones at us to make us gallop.
“My breaking in was a bad time. Several men caught me in a corner of the field. One held my nose so tight that I could hardly breathe, another forced my mouth open, and so they got the bit in. It was all force.”
“Was nobody kind at all?”
“The old master, Mr Ryder, could have done anything with me, but he left the hard work to his son, Samson, a big, strong man who liked to say that no horse had ever thrown him. There was no gentleness in him, only a hard voice, a hard eye and a hard hand. He wanted to break my spirit.” Ginger stamped her foot, as if the very thought of him made her angry.
“One day he came for me with a new kind of bit. Something I did made him angry, and he pulled hard on the reins. The bit hurt terribly, and I reared up. Then he began to whip me, and my whole spirit turned against him. I kicked and jumped as I had never done before. For a long time he stayed in the saddle and hurt me cruelly with his whip and his spurs, but at last I threw him off.
“I galloped to the far end of the field and stood under a tree. Nobody came for me. The sun was very hot, and the flies settled on my sides where the spurs had made them bleed. I was hungry and thirsty.
“At last, as the sun went down, the old master came out with some oats. ‘Come along, my girl, come along,’ he said. His voice was so kind that it took all my fear away, and I ate from his hand. He saw the blood on my sides. ‘Poor girl! It was a bad business.’
“Samson was standing at the stable door, and I put my ears back and snapped at him. ‘Stand back,’ said his father. ‘A bad-tempered man will never make a good-tempered horse. You haven’t learned your trade yet, Samson.’
“Then he washed my sides with warm water, very gently. My mouth was so sore that I could not eat hay, so he gave me a warm bran mash. How good it was! When my mouth had healed, another man, Job, went on training me. He was steady and thoughtful, and I soon learned what he wanted.”