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ISBN 978-1-4549-5732-4

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Cover and interior illustrations by Jim Tierney

Cover design by Julie Robine

Interior design by Kevin Ullrich

A Note on the Text: This book was published in 1877 and reflects the attitudes of its time. The publisher’s decision to present it as it was originally published is not intended as endorsement of any offensive cultural representations or language.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

A Note on the Text

PART I

1. MY EARLY HOME

2. THE HUNT

3. MY BREAKING IN

4. BIRTWICK PARK

5. A FAIR START

6. LIBERTY

7. GINGER

8. GINGER’S STORY CONTINUED

9. MERRYLEGS

10. A TALK IN THE ORCHARD

11. PLAIN SPEAKING

12. A STORMY DAY

13. THE DEVIL’S TRADEMARK

14. JAMES HOWARD

15. THE OLD OSTLER

16. THE FIRE

17. JOHN MANLY’S TALK

18. GOING FOR THE DOCTOR

19. ONLY IGNORANCE

20. JOE GREEN

21. THE PARTING

PART II

22. EARLSHALL

23. A STRIKE FOR LIBERTY

24. THE LADY ANNE

25. REUBEN SMITH

26. HOW IT ENDED

27. RUINED, AND GOING DOWNHILL

28. A JOB HORSE AND HIS DRIVERS

29. COCKNEYS

30. A THIEF

31. A HUMBUG

PART III

32. A HORSE FAIR

33. A LONDON CAB HORSE

34. AN OLD WAR HORSE

35. JERRY BARKER

36. THE SUNDAY CAB

37. THE GOLDEN RULE

38. DOLLY AND A REAL GENTLEMAN

39. SEEDY SAM

40. POOR GINGER

41. THE BUTCHER

42. THE ELECTION

43. A FRIEND IN NEED

44. OLD CAPTAIN AND HIS SUCCESSOR

45. JERRY’S NEW YEAR

PART IV

46. JAKES AND THE LADY

47. HARD TIMES

48. FARMER THOROUGHGOOD AND HIS GRANDSON WILLIE

49. MY LAST HOME

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PART I

1 My Early Home

THE FIRST PLACE THAT I CAN WELL REMEMBER WAS A LARGE PLEASANT meadow with a pond of clear water in it. Some shady trees leaned over it, and rushes and water lilies grew at the deep end. Over the hedge on one side we looked into a plowed field, and on the other we looked over a gate at our master’s house, which stood by the roadside. At the top of the meadow was a plantation of fir trees, and at the bottom a running brook overhung by a steep bank.

While I was young I lived upon my mother’s milk, as I could not eat grass. In the daytime I ran by her side, and at night I lay down close by her. When it was hot, we used to stand by the pond in the shade of the trees, and when it was cold, we had a warm shed near the plantation.

As soon as I was old enough to eat grass, my mother used to go out to work in the daytime, and come back in the evening.

There were six young colts in the meadow besides me. They were older than I was; some were nearly as large as grown-up horses. I used to run with them, and had great fun; we used to gallop all together round and round the field, as hard as we could go. Sometimes we had rather rough play, for they would frequently bite and kick, as well as gallop.

One day, when there was a good deal of kicking, my mother whinnied to me to come to her, and then she said:

“I wish you to pay attention to what I am going to say to you. The colts who live here are very good colts, but they are cart-horse colts, and, of course, they have not learned manners. You have been well-bred and well-born; your father has a great name in these parts, and your grandfather won the cup two years at the Newmarket races; your grandmother had the sweetest temper of any horse I ever knew, and I think you have never seen me kick or bite. I hope you will grow up gentle and good, and never learn bad ways; 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. I knew she was a wise old horse, and our master thought a great deal of her. Her name was Duchess, but he often called her Pet.

Our master was a good, kind man. He gave us good food, good lodging, and kind words; he spoke as kindly to us as he did to his little children. We were all fond of him, and my mother loved him very much. When she saw him at the gate, she would neigh with joy, and trot up to him. He would pat and stroke her and say, “Well, old Pet, and how is your little Darkie?” I was a dull black, so he called me Darkie, then he would give me a piece of bread, which was very good, and sometimes he brought a carrot for my mother. All the horses would come to him, but I think we were his favorites. My mother always took him to the town on a market day in a light gig.

There was a plowboy, Dick, who sometimes came into our field to pluck blackberries from the hedge. When he had eaten all he wanted, he would have what he called fun with the colts, throwing stones and sticks at them to make them gallop. We did not much mind him, for we could gallop off, but sometimes a stone would hit and hurt us.

One day he was at this game, and did not know that the master was in the next field, but he was there, watching what was going on. Over the hedge he jumped in a snap, and catching Dick by the arm, he gave him such a box on the ear as made him roar with the pain and surprise. As soon as we saw the master, we trotted up nearer to see what went on.

“Bad boy!” he said. “Bad boy to chase the colts! This is not the first time, nor the second, but it shall be the last. There—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 well off.

2 The Hunt

BEFORE I WAS TWO YEARS OLD A CIRCUMSTANCE HAPPENED WHICH I have never forgotten. It was early in the spring; there had been a little frost in the night, and a light mist still hung over the woods and meadows. I and the other colts were feeding at the lower part of the field when we heard, quite in the distance, what sounded like the cry of dogs. The oldest of the colts raised his head, pricked his ears, and said, “There are the hounds!” and immediately cantered off, followed by the rest of us to the upper part of the field, where we could look over the hedge and see several fields beyond. My mother and an old riding horse of our master’s were also standing near, and seemed to know all about it.

“They have found a hare,” said my mother, “and if they come this way we shall see the hunt.”

And soon the dogs were all tearing down the field of young wheat next to ours. I never heard such a noise as they made. They did not bark, nor howl, nor whine, but kept on a “Yo! Yo, o, o! Yo! Yo, o, o!” at the top of their voices. After them came a number of men on horseback, some of them in green coats, all galloping as fast as they could. The old horse snorted and looked eagerly after them, and we young colts wanted to be galloping with them, but they were soon away into the fields lower down; here it seemed as if they had come to a standstill; the dogs left off barking and ran about every way with their noses to the ground.

“They have lost the scent,” said the old horse; “perhaps the hare will get off.”

“What hare?” I said.

“Oh! I don’t know what hare; likely enough it may be one of our own hares out of the plantation; any hare they can find will do for the dogs and men to run after.” And before long the dogs began their “Yo! Yo, o, o!” again, and back they came all together at full speed, making straight for our meadow at the part where the high bank and hedge overhang the brook.

“Now we shall see the hare,” said my mother, and just then a hare, wild with fright, rushed by and made for the plantation. On came the dogs; they burst over the bank, leapt the stream, and came dashing across the field, followed by the huntsmen. Six or eight men leaped their horses clean over, close upon the dogs. The hare tried to get through the fence; it was too thick, and she turned sharp round to make for the road, but it was too late; the dogs were upon her with their wild cries. We heard one shriek, and that was the end of her. One of the huntsmen rode up and whipped off the dogs, who would soon have torn her to pieces. He held her up by the leg, torn and bleeding, and all the gentlemen seemed well pleased.

As for me, I was so astonished that I did not at first see what was going on by the brook; but when I did look, there was a sad sight. Two fine horses were down; one was struggling in the stream, and the other was groaning on the grass. One of the riders was getting out of the water covered with mud, the other lay quite still.

“His neck is broken,” said my mother.

“And serves him right, too,” said one of the colts.

I thought the same, but my mother did not join with us.

“Well, no,” she said, “you must not say that. But though I am an old horse and have seen and heard a great deal, I never yet could make out why men are so fond of this sport; they often hurt themselves, often spoil good horses, and tear up the fields, and all for a hare, or a fox, or a stag, that they could get more easily some other way; but we are only horses, and don’t know.”

While my mother was saying this, we stood and looked on. Many of the riders had gone to the young man; but my master, who had been watching what was going on, was the first to raise him. His head fell back and his arms hung down, and everyone looked very serious. There was no noise now; even the dogs were quiet, and seemed to know that something was wrong. They carried him to our master’s house. I heard afterward that it was young George Gordon, the Squire’s only son, a fine, tall young man, and the pride of his family.

They were now riding off in all directions—to the doctor’s, to the farrier’s, and no doubt to Squire Gordon’s, to let him know about his son. When Mr. Bond, the farrier, came to look at the black horse that lay groaning on the grass, he felt him all over, and shook his head; one of his legs was broken. Then someone ran to our master’s house and came back with a gun. Presently there was a loud bang and a dreadful shriek, and then all was still; the black horse moved no more.

My mother seemed much troubled. She said she had known that horse for years, and that his name was “Rob Roy”; he was a good bold horse, and there was no vice in him. She never would go to that part of the field afterward.

Not many days after, we heard the church bell tolling for a long time, and looking over the gate, we saw a long, strange black coach that was covered with black cloth and was drawn by black horses. After that came another and another and another, and all were black, while the bell kept tolling, tolling. They were carrying young Gordon to the churchyard to bury him. He would never ride again. What they did with Rob Roy I never knew, but ’twas all for one little hare.