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 finger, pushed into your mouth between your teeth and over your tongue, with the ends coming out at the corners, held fast by straps under your throat.
If you have never had a bit in your mouth, you cannot imagine how bad it feels.
It is a great piece of cold, hard steel, and it presses on your tongue and your bars, the sensitive gums where there are no teeth.
It makes your mouth sore, and you cannot get away from it.
But I had to learn to hold it quite still and be quiet, though I did not like it at all.
Next came the shoes.
That was a very strange day.
Farmer Gray took me to the blacksmith shop.
The blacksmith took my feet in his hands, one by one, and paired away a little of the hoof.
It did not hurt, but the smell of the hot iron when he fitted the shoe to my foot made me shiver.
Then he took some long, sharp nails and hammered them straight through the shoe into my hoof.
The hammering shook my whole leg, but once the nails were in, they did not pinch, and my feet felt very strong and heavy.
Day by day, my master broke me in gently.
He did not whip me, nor did he scream at me.
He spoke in a low, encouraging voice, and he gave me sweet oats when I did well.
He taught me to wear a harness, to feel the heavy leather collar around my neck, and to walk in blinkers, those leather flaps on each side of the eyes that prevent a horse from seeing anything except what is directly in front of him.
It is a lonely feeling not being able to see to the side, but my master showed me that if I trusted him, I had nothing to fear.
"A horse, darky," my mother told me one evening as we stood together under the fur trees, "is a noble creature.
But we do not choose our masters.
A horse never knows who may buy him or who may drive him.
It may be a kind man, like our master, or it may be a cruel, thoughtless one who will use the whip and the spur without mercy.
Therefore, my boy, do your best wherever you are, and keep up your good name."
I listened to her words, and when the time came for me to leave our quiet meadow, I resolved that I would always be a good and faithful servant, no matter where my road might lead.
When I was four years old, I was sold to a gentleman named Squire Gordon, who lived at Bertwick Park.
By this time, I had grown into a handsome horse.
My coat was a fine, glossy black, so dark that it shone like a raven's wing in the sunlight.
I had one white foot and a pretty white star on my forehead, of which I was very proud.
Bertwick Park was a grand place.
The stables were large and airy, with wide stalls and plenty of clean straw.
The coachman was a man named John Manley.
He had a dark, honest face and eyes that looked as if they could see right through you, but they were full of kindness.
He had an assistant, a clever young stable boy named James Howard, who loved horses as much as John did.
In the stable, I found two companions.
In the stall next to mine stood a little fat gray pony with a thick, flowing mane and tail.
His name was Merrylegs.
He was the most cheerful little fellow I had ever met, and he was the darling of the squire's children, whom he carried on his back for hours without ever losing his temper.
In the stall on my other side stood a tall chestnut mare.
She had a long, elegant neck, but her ears were often laid back, and her eyes had a wild, unhappy look.
Her name was Ginger.
On my first afternoon at Bertwick, when I reached my head over the wooden partition to say a friendly hello, Ginger gave a sharp snap of her teeth and hissed at me.
"Don't mind her," whispered Merrylegs from his stall.
"She has had a very hard time of it before she came here.
Men have been very cruel to her, and so she thinks everyone is her enemy.
But John is being very gentle with her, and she's beginning to find out that we don't all want to hurt her."
Over the next few weeks, I watched how John Manley treated Ginger.
He never raised his voice, he never used a whip.
When she flared her nostrils and backed away in fear, he would stand still, speak softly to her, and hold out his hand with a piece of sweet apple.
Slowly, very slowly, the wild look in Ginger's eyes began to soften.
One afternoon, when we were harnessed together to draw the squire's carriage, Ginger turned her head to me and said, "I have decided that I like Bertwick.
The master and John are different from other men.
When I was a filly, I was broken in by a man who had a heart of stone.
He used a heavy whip, and he used spurs that tore my sides.
He broke my spirit, and so I learned to bite and kick to keep men away.
But here, they treat me like a creature who can feel.
I think I shall try to be good."
And she was.
Ginger became one of the finest, most willing horses in the county.
When she and I trotted side by side, our paces matched perfectly, and we could pull the heavy carriage for miles without ever feeling the sting of a whip.
It was during my time at Bertwick that I learned how much a horse can understand, and how much we can do for those who treat us well.
One dark autumn night, the squire was called away on urgent business, and John Manley drove him in the dog cart with me in the shafts.
The wind was howling, and the rain fell in torrents.
The roads were muddy, and we had to go carefully.
On our return journey, we had to cross a low wooden bridge over a river.
The water was rising fast, flooding the meadows on either side.
As we reached the foot of the bridge, the night was so dark that John could see nothing, but he let me keep my steady trot.
The moment my forefeet touched the first wooden planks of the bridge, I felt something was wrong.
My instinct told me to stop.
I did not know what it was, but I knew I must not go forward.
I came to a dead stand.
"Go on, beauty," said John, using the name the squire's wife had given me.
He gave a gentle touch of the whip, but I would not move.
I jumped back a step.
"What's the matter, boy?" said John, getting down from the cart in the pouring rain.
He walked to my head and tried to lead me by the bridle, but I refused to budge.
Just then, the man who kept the toll gate on the other side of the river came running out of his cottage, waving a lantern.
"Hoy!
Hoy!
Stop!" he shouted.
"What is it?" called John.
"The bridge is broken in the middle!" the man screamed through the wind.
"The flood has carried the timbers away.
If you go forward, you will all go into the river!"
John let go of my bridle and threw his arms around my neck.
"Thank God, beauty," he whispered, his voice trembling in the dark.
"You have saved our lives."
When we returned home that night, John told the master what had happened.
Squire Gordon came into the stable, patted my neck, and gave me a warm mash of sweet oats.
He looked into my eyes and said, "We call them dumb beasts, John, but they have a wisdom that goes far beyond our own.
We must never forget how much we owe them."
Those were the golden years of my life.
I was strong, I was loved, and I believed that the world was a kind and beautiful place.
But as my mother had warned me, a horse's life is full of changes, and we cannot choose where we go.
The happy days at Bertwick Park could not last forever.
The squire's wife fell very ill, and the doctor said she must leave the cold, damp climate of England and live in a warmer land across the sea.
The estate was to be sold, the servants dismissed, and the horses parted.
It was a sad day when we said goodbye.
John Manley took Ginger and me to our new home, Earlshaw Park, the grand estate of a wealthy lord.
John's face was very grave as he led us into the stables.
He spoke to the new coachman, a man named Mr. York.
"These are two of the finest horses you will ever find," John said, his voice thick with emotion.
"They are gentle and willing, but they have been used to kind treatment.
I beg of you, York, do not use the bearing rein on them.
They do not need it, and it is a cruel thing."
York looked uneasy.
"I agree with you, Manley," he said.
"But my lady, the countess, is very particular about fashion.
She likes her horse's heads to be held up high, and she will have them so.
I will do my best for them, but I must obey my mistress."
John patted my nose one last time, gave Ginger a gentle stroke, and walked away without looking back.
I never saw him again.
At Earlshaw, we soon learned the meaning of the bearing rein.
It was a fashion in England at that time for wealthy people to have their carriage horses look spirited and proud.
To achieve this, a strap was attached to the bit in the horse's mouth, passed through a ring on the harness, and fastened tightly to the saddle on the horse's back.
This forced the horse's head up and back, far beyond its natural position.
The first time they put the bearing rein on me, it was dreadful.
I could not put my head down to get a good purchase on the road.
When a horse pulls a heavy load up a hill, he needs to lower his head and throw his whole weight into the collar.
But with the bearing rein, my head was pinned back, and my neck was arched so tightly that I could hardly breathe.
The iron bit sawed at the corners of my mouth, making them bleed.
"I cannot bear this!" Ginger hissed as we stood waiting outside a grand shop in the town.
"It is a torment!
My neck is on fire, and my throat is squeezed so tight, I feel I shall choke!"
"Be patient," I whispered, though my own chest was aching with the strain.
"Perhaps they will see how we suffer and loosen it."
But they did not.
Every day, the countess demanded that our heads be pulled up higher.
One afternoon, as we were being harnessed, the lady came out to the carriage.
"York," she said coldly.
"Those horses do not look stylish enough.
Raise their heads another notch."
York looked troubled, but he did not dare disobey.
He took the straps and pulled them tighter still.
The pain was excruciating.
My head was forced up so high that I could see nothing but the sky, and my windpipe was so compressed that every breath was a gasp.
Ginger could bear it no longer.
With a plunge of wild desperation, she reared high into the air.
She kicked out with her hind legs, smashing the carriage pole and throwing herself to the ground.
The harness snapped, and there was a great shouting and screaming from the servants.
Ginger was led away to her stall, bruised and bleeding, her spirit once again hardened into bitter anger.
After that day, she was deemed too dangerous for the carriage and was sold to a dealer.
I had lost my dearest friend, and I was left to bear the torment alone.
But my troubles at Earlshaw were only beginning.
Some months later, the family went away, and I was left under the care of a groom named Reuben Smith.
Reuben was a good horseman, and when he was sober, he was as kind and gentle as John Manley.
But he had one great weakness.
He loved the drink, and when he drank, he lost his senses.
One evening, Reuben had to ride me back from a town several miles away.
Before we left, the blacksmith had warned him that one of my iron shoes was loose and needed to be fastened.
But Reuben had spent the afternoon at the tavern, and he was too drunk to listen.
"Come on, beauty!" he shouted, leaping into the saddle and digging his spurs into my sides.
The road was rocky and uneven.
We galloped at a furious pace.
With every stride, my loose shoe rattled, and soon it flew off altogether.
My bare hoof was exposed to the sharp, jagged stones of the road, but Reuben did not notice.
He whipped me to go faster.
The pain was terrible.
Every step felt like stepping on broken glass.
I tried to go as gently as I could, but the road grew rougher, and my hoof began to split.
At last, as we galloped down a steep hill, my foot struck a sharp flint.
The pain was so sharp that I could not bear my weight.
I stumbled and fell heavily on both my knees.
Reuben was thrown far over my head.
He struck a stone wall by the roadside and lay completely still.
I struggled to my feet, trembling from head to foot.
My knees were torn open, and the warm blood was running down my legs.
I stood there in the dark, cold night, listening to the wind in the trees, waiting beside the silent form of my rider.
It was hours before we were found.
Reuben Smith was dead, his life ended by his own thoughtless folly.
And my knees, those beautiful, strong knees that had once trotted so proudly, were ruined.
The skin was torn away, and the joints were deeply scarred.
In those days, a horse with scarred knees was no longer fit for a gentleman's carriage.
I was no longer genteel.
I was sold to a horse dealer to be auctioned off to whoever would buy a damaged animal.
My days of luxury and fine stables were gone forever.
I was taken to a great horse fair, where hundreds of horses were lined up to be sold.
It was a loud, frightening place, filled with the smell of cheap beer, wet straw, and tobacco smoke.
Men with whips walked up and down, poking us, looking into our mouths to check our teeth, and making us trot on the hard ground to see if we were lame.
I was bought by a man named Jerry Barker, who was a London cab driver.
If you have never seen London in those days, it is hard to imagine how crowded and noisy it was.
The streets were paved with hard cobblestones, and the air was thick with a heavy yellow fog that smelled of coal smoke and wet wool.
Thousands of carriages, carts, and omnibuses clattered past in a never-ending roar, and the shouting of the drivers was like the sound of a great storm.
Jerry Barker was a poor man, but he had a kind face and a merry whistle.
He lived in a small house in a quiet street with his wife, Polly, and their two children, Harry and Dolly.
The stable was small, but it was clean and dry, and Jerry gave me plenty of sweet hay and clean water.
He named me Jack.
"Well, Jack, my boy," Jerry said on my first morning, patting my nose as he put on my harness.
"We have a hard life ahead of us, but we shall do it together, and I will always see that you have a warm supper and a kind word."
Jerry was a wonderful driver.
He never used a whip, and he never used a bearing rein.
He let me hold my head in a natural position, which made it much easier to pull the heavy cab over the slippery cobblestones.
He knew every street in the great city, and he was always honest and fair with his passengers.
But the work of a London cab horse is very hard.
We worked in all weathers, in the burning heat of summer, when the asphalt melted under our hoofs, and in the freezing rain of winter, when the roads were covered in ice.
We had to stand for hours at the cab stands, waiting for a fair, shivering in the biting wind, with nothing but a thin blanket to keep us warm.
One cold afternoon, while we were waiting near a grand park, another cab drove up behind us.
The horse pulling it was so thin and worn that her ribs showed through her dull, dirty coat.
Her head hung low, and her knees were swollen and scarred.
I looked at her, and then I looked again.
My heart gave a great leap of sorrow.
"Ginger?" I whispered.
The poor horse slowly raised her head.
Her eyes were sunken and dull, but as she looked at me, a faint spark of recognition came into them.
"Beauty?" she said, her voice weak and wheezing.
"Is it really you?"
"Oh, Ginger," I said, reaching my head out to touch her nose.
"What has happened to you?"
She gave a low, sad sigh.
"They sold me from one master to another," she said.
"A gentleman bought me, but I was too spirited for him, so he sold me to a job master.
Then I was leased to men who worked me day and night.
Now I am a cab horse, like you, but my master is a hard man.
He whips me when I am tired, and he never gives me enough to eat.
My wind is broken, and my limbs are ruined.
I only wish for one thing, beauty."
"What is that?" I asked, my heart breaking for her.
"I wish to die," she said softly.
"The work is too hard, and the pain is too great.
If I could only lie down and never have to get up again, I should be glad."
Just then, her driver came out of a tavern, shouting and shaking his whip.
He jumped onto the box and gave her a cruel cut across her back.
Ginger gave a low groan, strained against the heavy collar, and pulled the cab away into the crowded street.
I never saw her again, but a few days later, a cart passed our cab stand.
In the back of the cart lay the body of a dead chestnut horse, her long neck thin and wasted.
I hoped with all my heart that it was Ginger, and that she had finally found the rest and peace she had so long desired.
Jerry Barker was a good master, but he was only a man, and he could not escape the hardships of the London winter.
One New Year's Eve, we were hired by two wealthy young men, who went into a grand house for a party.
They told Jerry to wait for them outside.
It was a terrible night.
The snow was falling fast, and a bitter, freezing wind blew down the street.
Jerry walked up and down, stamping his feet and rubbing his hands together to keep from freezing.
He put his own warm coat over me to keep me from shivering, but the hours dragged on, and still the young men did not come out.
It was nearly 3:00 in the morning when they finally appeared, laughing and shouting, without a word of apology for keeping us waiting in the freezing cold.
By the time we reached home, Jerry was coughing violently, and his hands were so numb, he could hardly hold my reins.
The next morning, he did not come to the stable.
Harry, his young son, came to feed me, his eyes red with tears.
"Father is very ill," Harry whispered, leaning his head against my neck.
"The doctor says it is bronchitis, and he must never drive a cab again."
Jerry's family had to sell the cab and the horses and move to the country, where the air was clean and sweet.
Once again, I was sold.
My next master was a baker, who used me to pull a heavy bread cart.
The work was constant, with endless stops and starts, and the baker's assistant was a careless boy, who often forgot to feed me.
My strength began to fail.
My breathing became short and difficult, and my legs grew stiff and sore.
After the baker, I was sold to a coal merchant.
This was the hardest work of all.
The cart was loaded with heavy sacks of coal, and I had to pull it up the steep, slippery hills of the city.
One afternoon, as we were climbing a particularly steep hill, my strength failed me.
The driver whipped me, but I had no more to give.
My feet slipped on the wet stones, my knees buckled, and I fell heavily to the ground.
I lay there in the mud, my breath coming in painful gasps.
I thought of my mother's green meadow and of Bertwick Park, and I wondered if my time had finally come to join Ginger.
"He's done for," said a bystander, looking down at me.
"He's only fit for the knacker's yard now."
The knacker's yard was the place where old, worn-out horses were sent to be killed.
But my driver, though he was a hard man, did not want to lose his money.
He got me to my feet and led me slowly back to the stable.
A few days later, I was taken once more to the horse fair.
I was a pitiful sight.
My coat was dirty and rough, my ribs showed, and my knees were scarred and swollen.
I stood with my head hanging down, expecting nothing but the worst.
As I stood there, an old gentleman with a kind, gentle face walked past, accompanied by a young boy of about 12.
The boy stopped and looked at me.
"Grandfather," the boy said, pointing to me.
"Look at this horse.
He has such a beautiful, gentle eye, but he looks so thin and sad."
The old gentleman stepped closer.
He patted my nose, and his hand was warm and gentle, the kind of hand I had not felt since the days of John Manley.
"He has been a fine horse in his day, Willie," the grandfather said, looking at my head and my chest.
"He is terribly worn down, but there is still a noble spirit in him.
If we took him home and gave him a few months of rest in the green pasture, I think he might recover."
They bought me for a small sum of money, and I was taken to their farm in the country.
For the first few weeks, I did nothing but rest.
I was turned out into a beautiful green field, where the grass was sweet and the air was fresh.
The grandfather, Mr. Thorogood, and young Willie came to see me every day, bringing me carrots and apples.
Slowly, my strength began to return.
My coat grew glossy black once more, and the stiffness left my legs.
One day, when I was deemed strong enough, they decided to try me in a light carriage.
A groom was brought out to harness me.
He was a young man, but there was something familiar about the way he walked and the gentle way he spoke to me.
He came to my head and looked at my forehead, where my white star had grown a little faint with age.
Then he looked at my scarred knees, and his breath caught in his throat.
"It can't be!" the young man whispered, his voice trembling.
"It can't be Black Beauty!"
He threw his arms around my neck, and I smelled the familiar scent of Bertwick Park.
It was Joe Green, the little stable boy who had once been so young and helper in to John Manley, had grown into a strong, kind groom.
"It is him, Mr. Thorogood!" Joe cried, tears of joy in his eyes.
"It is Squire Gordon's Black Beauty!
I would know him anywhere.
Oh, Beauty, my old friend, you have found your way home at last!"
And so, my story comes to its quiet end.
I was not sold again.
The three kind ladies who lived at the farm near Mr. Thorogood's estate decided to keep me for the rest of my days.
Joe Green became my groom once more, and he treats me as if I were a king.
I have a comfortable stall, the finest oats, and every day I am turned out into the green pasture, where the wind whispers through the fur trees.
Sometimes, as I stand in the warm sunshine, I close my eyes and I dream.
I dream that I am still a young colt, running free in the meadow with my mother, Duchess, with the sweet scent of the clover and the cool water of the pond nearby.
I dream of Ginger, running strong and free beside me, her spirit no longer broken, her heart no longer afraid.
My story is just one of many.
This tale was first written down in England by a brave woman named Anna Sewell.
She was very ill and could not walk, and from her window, she watched how the horses of London were treated.
She wrote this story not for fame or for money, but to give a voice to those who could not speak for themselves, to show the world that a horse feels hunger, thirst, pain, and fear, just as a human does, and that they respond to kindness with a loyalty that knows no bounds.
Because of her book, people all over the world began to look at horses differently.
They began to question the cruel fashions, like the bearing rein, and they began to realize that the way we treat the creatures who serve us is a reflection of who we are.
My troubles are over, and I am at peace.
I have nothing to fear and nothing to do but to enjoy the sweet grass and the gentle care of my friends.
But as you close your eyes tonight, and as you think of the great wild world out there, full of creatures of every shape and size, dogs and cats, horses and birds, and all the wild things of the earth, I leave you with a question to keep.
How should we treat those who cannot speak for themselves?
And what do you think they would say to us if they only had the words?