I met her several times out in the country, going a good steady pace,
and looking as gay and contented as a horse could be. I was very glad to
see her, for she deserved a good place.
After she left us another horse came in her stead. He was young, and had
a bad name for shying and starting, by which he had lost a good place. I
asked him what made him shy.
Well, I hardly know, he said. I was timid when I was young, and was a
good deal frightened several times, and if I saw anything strange I
used to turn and look at it--you see, with our blinkers one can't see
or understand what a thing is unless one looks round--and then my master
always gave me a whipping, which of course made me start on, and did not
make me less afraid. I think if he would have let me just look at things
quietly, and see that there was nothing to hurt me, it would have been
all right, and I should have got used to them. One day an old gentleman
was riding with him, and a large piece of white paper or rag blew across
just on one side of me. I shied and started forward. My master as usual
whipped me smartly, but the old man cried out, 'You're wrong! you're
wrong! You should never whip a horse for shying; he shies because he is
frightened, and you only frighten him more and make the habit worse.'
So I suppose all men don't do so. I am sure I don't want to shy for the
sake of it; but how should one know what is dangerous and what is not,
if one is never allowed to get used to anything? I am never afraid of
what I know. Now I was brought up in a park where there were deer; of
course I knew them as well as I did a sheep or a cow, but they are not
common, and I know many sensible horses who are frightened at them, and
who kick up quite a shindy before they will pass a paddock where there
are deer.
I knew what my companion said was true, and I wished that every young
horse had as good masters as Farmer Grey and Squire Gordon.
Of course we sometimes came in for good driving here. I remember one
morning I was put into the light gig, and taken to a house in Pulteney
Street. Two gentlemen came out; the taller of them came round to my
head; he looked at the bit and bridle, and just shifted the collar with
his hand, to see if it fitted comfortably.
Do you consider this horse wants a curb? he said to the hostler.
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