Beautiful Joe (16 page)

I did not
wonder that the rabbit wanted to see his master. There was something about that
young man that made dumb animals just delight in him. When Mrs. Wood mentioned
this to him he said, “I don’t know why they should—I don’t do anything to
fascinate them.”

“You love
them,” she said, “and they know it. That is the reason.”

For a good
while after I went to Dingley Farm I was very shy of the horses, for I was
afraid they might kick me, thinking that I was a bad dog like Bruno. However,
they all had such good faces, and looked at me so kindly, that I was beginning
to get over my fear of them.

Fleetfoot,
Mr. Harry’s colt, was my favorite, and one afternoon, when Mr. Harry and Miss
Laura were going out to see him, I followed them. Fleetfoot was amusing himself
by rolling over and over on the grass under a tree, but when he saw Mr. Harry,
he gave a shrill whinny, and running to him, began nosing about his pockets.

“Wait a
bit,” said Mr. Harry, holding him by the forelock. “Let me introduce you to
this young lady, Miss Laura Morris. I want you to make her a bow.” He gave the
colt some sign, and immediately he began to paw the ground and shake his head.

Mr. Harry
laughed and went on: “Here is her dog Joe. I want you to like him, too. Come
here, Joe.” I was not at all afraid, for I knew Mr. Harry would not let him
hurt me, so I stood in front of him, and for the first time had a good look at
him. They called him the colt, but he was really a full-grown horse, and had
already been put to work. He was of a dark chestnut colour, and had a
well-shaped body and a long, handsome head, and I never saw, in the head of a
man or beast, a more beautiful pair of eyes than that colt had—large, full,
brown eyes they were that he turned on me almost as a person would. He looked
me all over as if to say: “Are you a good dog, and will you treat me kindly, or
are you a bad one like Bruno, and will you chase me and snap at my heels and
worry me, so that I shall want to kick you?”

I looked
at him very earnestly and wagged my body, and lifted myself on my hind legs
toward him. He seemed pleased and put down his nose to sniff at me, and then we
were friends. Friends, and such good friends, for next to Jim and Billy, I have
loved Fleetfoot.

Mr. Harry
pulled some lumps of sugar out of his pocket, and giving them to Miss Laura,
told her to put them on the palm of her hand and hold it out flat toward
Fleetfoot. The colt ate the sugar, and all the time eyed her with his quiet,
observing glance, that made her exclaim: “What wise-looking colt!”

“He is
like an old horse,” said Mr. Harry, “When he hears a sudden noise, he stops and
looks all about him to find an explanation.”

“He has
been well trained,” said Miss Laura.

“I have
brought him up carefully,” said Mr. Harry. “Really, he has been treated more
like a dog than a colt. He follows me about the farm and smells everything I
handle, and seems to want to know the reason of things.”

“Your
mother says,” replied Miss Laura, “that she found you both asleep on the lawn
one day last summer, and the colt’s head was on your arm.”

Mr. Harry
smiled and threw his arm over the colt’s neck. “We’ve been comrades, haven’t
we, Fleetfoot? I’ve been almost ashamed of his devotion. He has followed me to
the village, and he always wants to go fishing with me. He’s four years old
now, so he ought to get over those coltish ways. I’ve driven him a good deal.
We’re going out in the buggy this afternoon, will you come?”

“Where are
you going?” asked Miss Laura.

“Just for
a short drive back of the river, to collect some money for father. I’ll be home
long before tea time.”

“Yes, I
should like to go,” said Miss Laura “I shall go to the house and get my other
hat.”

“Come on,
Fleetfoot,” said Mr. Harry. And he led the way from the pasture, the colt
following behind with me. I waited about the veranda, and in a short time Mr.
Harry drove up to the front door. The buggy was black and shining, and
Fleetfoot had on a silver-mounted harness that made him look very fine. He
stood gently switching his long tail to keep the flies away, and with his head
turned to see who was going to get into the buggy. I stood by him, and as soon
as he saw that Miss Laura and Mr. Harry had seated themselves, he acted as if
he wanted to be off. Mr. Harry spoke to him and away he went, I racing down the
lane by his side, so happy to think he was my friend. He liked having me beside
him, and every few seconds put down his head toward me. Animals can tell each
other things without saying a word. When Fleetfoot gave his head a little toss
in a certain way, I knew that he wanted to have a race. He had a beautiful even
gait, and went very swiftly. Mr. Harry kept speaking to him to check him.

“You don’t
like him to go too fast, do you?” said Miss Laura.

“No,” he
returned. “I think we could make a racer of him if we liked, but father and I
don’t go in for fast horses. There is too much said about fast trotters and
race horses. On some of the farms around here, the people have gone mad on
breeding fast horses. An old farmer out in the country had a common cart-horse
that he suddenly found out had great powers of speed and endurance. He sold him
to a speculator for a big price, and it has set everybody wild. If the people
who give all their time to it can’t raise fast horses I don’t see how the
farmers can. A fast horse on a farm is ruination to the boys, for it starts them
racing and betting. Father says he is going to offer a prize for the fastest walker
that can be bred in New Hampshire. That Dutchman of ours, heavy as he is, is a
fair walker, and Cleve and Pacer can each walk four and a half miles an hour.”

“Why do you
lay such stress on their walking fast?” asked Miss Laura.

“Because
so much of the farm work must be done at a walk. Ploughing, teaming, and
drawing produce to market, and going up and down hills. Even for the cities it
is good to have fast walkers. Trotting on city pavements is very hard on the
dray horses. If they are allowed to go at a quick walk, their legs will keep
strong much longer. It is shameful the way horses are used up in big cities.
Our pavements are so bad that cab horses are used up in three years. In many
ways we are a great deal better off in this new country than the people in
Europe, but we are not in respect of cab horses, for in London and Paris they
last for five years. I have seen horses drop down dead in New York just from
hard usage. Poor brutes, there is a better time coming for them though. When electricity
is more fully developed we’ll see some wonderful changes. As it is, last year
in different places, about thirty thousand horses were released from those
abominable horse cars, by having electricity introduced on the roads. Well,
Fleetfoot, do you want another spin? All right, my boy, go ahead.”

Away we
went again along a bit of level road. Fleetfoot had no check-rein on his
beautiful neck, and when he trotted, he could hold his head in an easy, natural
position. With his wonderful eyes and flowing mane and tail, and his glossy,
reddish-brown body, I thought that he was the handsomest horse I had ever seen.
He loved to go fast, and when Mr. Harry spoke to him to slow up again, he
tossed his head with impatience. But he was too sweet-tempered to disobey. In
all the years that I have known Fleetfoot, I have never once seen him refuse to
do as his master told him.

“You have
forgotten your whip, haven’t you Harry?” I heard Miss Laura say, as we jogged
slowly along, and I ran by the buggy panting and with my tongue hanging out.

“I never
use one,” said Mr. Harry; “if I saw any man lay one on Fleetfoot, I’d knock him
down.” His voice was so severe that I glanced up into the buggy. He looked just
as he did the day that he stretched Jenkins on the ground, and gave him a
beating.

“I am so
glad you don’t,” said Miss Laura. “You are like the Russians. Many of them
control their horses by their voices, and call them such pretty names. But you
have to use a whip for some horses, don’t you, Cousin Harry?”

“Yes,
Laura. There are many vicious horses that can’t be controlled otherwise, and
then with many horses one requires a whip in case of necessity for urging them
forward.”

“I suppose
Fleetfoot never balks,” said Miss Laura.

“No,”
replied Mr. Harry; “Dutchman sometimes does, and we have two cures for him,
both equally good. We take up a forefoot and strike his shoe two or three times
with a stone. The operation always interests him greatly, and he usually
starts. If he doesn’t go for that, we pass a line round his forelegs, at the
knee joint, then go in front of him and draw on the line. Father won’t let the
men use a whip, unless they are driven to it.”

“Fleetfoot
has had a happy life, hasn’t he?” said Miss Laura, looking admiringly at him “How
did he get to like you so much, Harry?”

“I broke
him in after a fashion of my own. Father gave him to me, and the first time I
saw him on his feet, I went up carefully and put my hand on him. His mother was
rather shy of me, for we hadn’t had her long, and it made him shy too, so I
soon left him. The next time I stroked him; the next time I put my arm around
him. Soon he acted like a big dog. I could lead him about by a strap, and I
made a little halter and a bridle for him. I didn’t see why I shouldn’t train
him a little while he was young and manageable.

“I think
it is cruel to let colts run till one has to employ severity in mastering them.
Of course, I did not let him do much work. Colts are like boys—a boy shouldn’t
do a man’s work, but he had exercise every day, and I trained him to draw a
light cart behind him. I used to do all kinds of things to accustom him to unusual
sounds. Father talked a good deal to me about Rarey, the great horse-tamer, and
it put ideas into my head. He said he once saw Rarey come on a stage in Boston
with a timid horse that he was going to accustom to a loud noise. First a bugle
was blown, then some louder instrument, and so on, till there was a whole brass
band going. Rarey reassured the animal, and it was not afraid.”

“You like
horses better than any other animals, don’t you, Harry?” asked Miss Laura.

“I believe
I do, though I am very fond of that dog of yours. I think I know more about
horses than dogs. Have you noticed Scamp very much?”

“Oh, yes;
I often watched her. She is such an amusing little creature.”

“She’s the
most interesting one we’ve got, that is, after Fleetfoot. Father got her from a
man who couldn’t manage her, and she came to us with a legion of bad tricks.
Father has taken solid comfort though, in breaking her of them. She is his pet
among our stock. I suppose you know that horses, more than any other animals,
are creatures of habit. If they do a thing once, they will do it again. When
she came to us, she had a trick of biting at a person who gave her oats. She
would do it without fail, so father put a little stick under his arm, and every
time she would bite he would give her a rap over the nose. She soon got tired of
biting, and gave it up. Sometimes now, you’ll see her make a snap at father as
if she was going to bite, and then look under his arm to see if the stick is
there.
“He cured some of her tricks in one way, and some in another. One bad one she
had was to start for the stable the minute one of the traces was unfastened
when we were unharnessing. She pulled father over once, and another time she
ran the shaft of the sulky clean through the barn door. The next time father
brought her in, he got ready for her. He twisted the lines around his hands,
and the minute she began to bolt, he gave a tremendous jerk, that pulled her
back upon her haunches, and shouted, ‘Whoa!’ It cured her, and she never
started again, till he gave her the word. Often now, you’ll see her throw her head
back when she is being unhitched. He only did it once, yet she remembers. If we’d
had the training of Scamp, she’d be a very different animal. It’s nearly all in
the bringing up of a colt, whether it will turn out vicious or gentle. If any
one were to strike Fleetfoot, he would not know what it meant. He has been
brought up differently from Scamp.

“She was
probably trained by some brutal man who inspired her with distrust of the human
species. She never bites an animal, and seems attached to all the other horses.
She loves Fleetfoot and Cleve and Pacer. Those three are her favorites.”

“I love to
go for drives with Cleve and Pacer,” said Miss Laura, “they are so steady and
good. Uncle says they are the most trusty horses he has. He has told me about
the man you had, who said that those two horses knew more than most ‘humans.’”

“That was
old Davids,” said Mr. Harry; “when we had him, he was courting a widow who
lived over in Hoytville. About once a fortnight, he’d ask father for one of the
horses to go over to see her. He always stayed pretty late, and on the way home
he’d tie the reins to the whip-stock and go to sleep, and never wake up till
Cleve or Pacer, whichever one he happened to have, would draw up in the
barnyard. They would pass any rigs they happened to meet, and turn out a little
for a man. If Davids wasn’t asleep, he could always tell by the difference in
their gait which they were passing. They’d go quickly past a man, and much
slower, with more of a turn out, if it was a team. But I dare say father told you
this. He has a great stock of horse stories, and I am almost as bad. You will
have to cry ‘halt,’ when we bore you.”

“You never
do,” replied Miss Laura. “I love to talk about animals. I think the best story
about Cleve and Pacer is the one that uncle told me last evening. I don’t think
you were there. It was about stealing the oats.”

“Cleve and
Pacer never steal,” said Mr. Harry. “Don’t you mean Scamp? She’s the thief.”

“No, it
was Pacer that stole. He got out of his box, uncle says, and found two bags of
oats, and he took one in his teeth and dropped it before Cleve, and ate the
other himself, and uncle was so amused that he let them eat a long time, and
stood and watched them.”

“That was
a clever trick,” said Mr. Harry. “Father must have forgotten to tell me. Those
two horses have been mates ever since I can remember, and I believe if they
were separated, they’d pine away and die. You have noticed how low the
partitions are between the boxes in the horse stable. Father says you wouldn’t
put a lot of people in separate boxes in a room, where they couldn’t see each
other, and horses are just as fond of company as we are. Cleve and Pacer are
always nosing each other.
“A horse has a long memory. Father has had horses recognize him, that he has
been parted from for twenty years. Speaking of their memories reminds me of
another good story about Pacer that I never heard till yesterday, and that I
would not talk about to anyone but you and mother. Father wouldn’t write me
about it, for he never will put a line on paper where any one’s reputation is
concerned.”