next the hedge. Rory was on the left side of the pole, and had not even
a shaft to protect him. The man who was driving was making straight for
the corner, and when he came in sight of us he had no time to pull over
to his own side. The whole shock came upon Rory. The gig shaft ran right
into the chest, making him stagger back with a cry that I shall never
forget. The other horse was thrown upon his haunches and one shaft
broken. It turned out that it was a horse from our own stables, with the
high-wheeled gig that the young men were so fond of.
The driver was one of those random, ignorant fellows, who don't even
know which is their own side of the road, or, if they know, don't care.
And there was poor Rory with his flesh torn open and bleeding, and the
blood streaming down. They said if it had been a little more to one side
it would have killed him; and a good thing for him, poor fellow, if it
had.
As it was, it was a long time before the wound healed, and then he was
sold for coal-carting; and what that is, up and down those steep hills,
only horses know. Some of the sights I saw there, where a horse had to
come downhill with a heavily loaded two-wheel cart behind him, on which
no brake could be placed, make me sad even now to think of.
After Rory was disabled I often went in the carriage with a mare named
Peggy, who stood in the next stall to mine. She was a strong, well-made
animal, of a bright dun color, beautifully dappled, and with a
dark-brown mane and tail. There was no high breeding about her, but she
was very pretty and remarkably sweet-tempered and willing. Still, there
was an anxious look about her eye, by which I knew that she had some
trouble. The first time we went out together I thought she had a very
odd pace; she seemed to go partly a trot, partly a canter, three or four
paces, and then a little jump forward.
It was very unpleasant for any horse who pulled with her, and made me
quite fidgety. When we got home I asked her what made her go in that
odd, awkward way.
Ah, she said in a troubled manner, I know my paces are very bad, but
what can I do? It really is not my fault; it is just because my legs are
so short. I stand nearly as high as you, but your legs are a good three
inches longer above your knee than mine, and of course you can take a
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