Beautiful Joe, Marshall Saunders [historical books to read .TXT] 📗

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 any one 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."

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

CHAPTER XXVI (THE BOX OF MONEY)

 

"This story," said Mr. Harry, "is about one of the hired men we had last

winter, whose name was Jacobs. He was a cunning fellow, with a hangdog

look, and a great cleverness at stealing farm produce from father on the

sly, and selling it. Father knew perfectly well what he was doing, and

was wondering what would be the best way to deal with him, when one day

something happened that brought matters to a climax.

 

"Father had to go to Sudbury for farming tools, and took Pacer and the

cutter. There are two ways of going there--one the Sudbury Road, and the

other the old Post Road, which is longer and seldom used. On this

occasion father took the Post Road. The snow wasn't deep, and he wanted

to inquire after an old man who had been robbed and half frightened to

death, a few days before. He was a miserable old creature, known as

Miser Jerrold, and he lived alone with his daughter. He had saved a

little money that he kept in a box under his bed. When father got near

the place, he was astonished to see by Pacer's actions that he had been

on this road before, and recently, too. Father is so sharp about horses,

that they never do a thing that he doesn't attach a meaning to. So he

let the reins hang a little loose, and kept his eye on Pacer. The horse

went along the road, and seeing father didn't direct him, turned into

the lane leading to the house. There was an old red gate at the end of

it, and he stopped in front of it, and waited for father to get out.

Then he passed through, and instead of going up to the house, turned

around, and stood with his head toward the road.

 

"Father never said a word, but he was doing a lot of thinking. He went

into the house, and found the old man sitting over the fire, rubbing his

hands, and half-crying about 'the few poor dollars,' that he said he had

had stolen from him. Father had never seen him before, but he knew he

had the name of being half silly, and question him as much as he liked,

he could make nothing of him. The daughter said that they had gone to

bed at dark the night her father was robbed. She slept up stairs, and he

down below. About ten o'clock she heard him scream, and running down

stairs, she found him sitting up in bed, and the window wide open. He

said a man had sprung in upon him, stuffed the bedclothes into his

mouth, and dragging his box from under the bed, had made off with it.

She ran to the door and looked out, but there was no one to be seen. It

was dark, and snowing a little, so no traces of footsteps were to be

perceived in the morning.

 

"Father found that the neighbors were dropping in to bear the old man

company, so he drove on to Sudbury, and then returned home. When he got

back, he said Jacobs was hanging about the stable in a nervous kind of a

way, and said he wanted to speak to him. Father said very good, but put

the horse in first. Jacobs unhitched, and father sat on one of the

stable benches and watched him till he came lounging along with a straw

in his mouth, and said he'd made up his mind to go West, and he'd like

to set off at once.

 

"Father said again, very good, but first he had a little account to

settle with him, and he took out of his pocket a paper, where he had

jotted down, as far as he could, every quart of oats, and every bag of

grain, and every quarter of a dollar of market money that Jacobs had

defrauded him of. Father said the fellow turned all the colors of the

rainbow, for he thought he had covered up his