Black Beauty

The first place 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 grove of fur trees, and at the bottom, a running brook overhung by a steep bank. This story comes to us from England, a green and rainy island of rolling hills, ancient stone walls, and bustling cobblestone cities. It was a time, not so very long ago, when the world was powered not by engines of steel and steam, but by the strength of beating hearts. By the millions of horses who carried people to work, hauled heavy coal from the docks, and plowed the rich earth. While there are many ways to tell of this vanished time, this is the story of one black horse who lived it, and who learned, through joy and through sorrow, what it means to live at the mercy of human hands. 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 stood under the shade of the trees, quite near the pond. And when it was cold, we had a warm, cozy shed near the grove. There were six young colts in the meadow besides me. They were older than I was and had great fun. We used to gallop all together round and round the meadow 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 winnied 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 New Market 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. She was a wise old horse, and our master, Farmer Gray, 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 gently to us as he did to his little children. We were all quite fond of him, and my mother loved him dearly. When she saw him at the gate, she would nay with joy and trot up to him. He would pat her and stroke her and say, "Well, old girl, and how is your little darky?" I was a dull black, so he called me darky. Then he would give me a piece of bread, which was very good, and sometimes he would give my mother a carrot. All the horses would come to him, but I think we were his favorites. But as I grew older, the time came for me to be broken in. To a young horse, this is a strange and frightening time. It means learning to wear a saddle and bridle, and to carry a human being on your back, going just the way they want you to go, even when you would rather run free. It means having a cold piece of iron, as thick as a man's…

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