Black Beauty 28, 29, 30

Enjoy this bedtime tale to help you drift off into a peaceful slumber. Tonight's reading is Black Beauty by Anna Sewell. Through the eyes of a horse, chapters 28, 29, and 30 discuss the challenges Beauty faces with different riders. This audio is perfect for children or adults who want to relax, discover magic, or embark on an adventure before a great night's sleep.

Transcript

CHAPTER 28 A JOB HORSE AND HIS DRIVERS Hitherto I had always been driven by people who at least knew how to drive,

But in this place I was to get my experience of all the different kinds of bad and ignorant driving to which we horses are subjected.

For I was a job horse and was let out to all sorts of people who wished to hire me,

And as I was good-tempered and gentle,

I think I was oftener let out to ignorant drivers than some of the other horses because I could be depended upon.

It would take a long time to tell of all the different styles in which I was driven,

But I will mention a few of them.

First,

There were the tight-reined drivers,

Men who seemed to think that all depended on holding the reins as hard as they could,

Never relaxing the pull on the horse's mouth or giving him the least liberty of movement.

They are always talking about keeping the horse well in hand and holding a horse up,

Just as if a horse was not made to hold himself up.

Some poor,

Broken-down horses,

Whose mouths have been made hard and insensible by just drivers as these,

May perhaps find some support in it,

But for a horse who can depend upon his own legs and who has a tender mouth and is easily guided,

It is not only tormenting,

But it is stupid.

Then there are those loose-reined drivers who let the reins lie easily on our backs and their own hand rest lazily on their knees.

Of course,

Such gentlemen have no control over a horse if anything happens suddenly.

If a horse shies or starts or stumbles,

They are nowhere and cannot help the horse or themselves till the mischief is done.

Of course,

For myself I had no objection to it,

As I was not in the habit either of starting or stumbling,

And had only been used to depend on my driver for guidance and encouragement.

Still,

One likes to feel the rain a little in going downhill,

And likes to know that one's driver has not gone to sleep.

Besides,

A slovenly way of driving gets a horse into bad and often lazy habits,

And when he changes hands he has to be whipped out of them with more or less pain and trouble.

Squire Gordon always kept us to our best paces and our best manners.

He said that spoiling a horse and letting him get into bad habits was just as cruel as spoiling a child,

And both had to suffer for it afterwards.

Besides,

These drivers are often careless altogether and will attend to anything else more than their horses.

I went out to the Phaeton one day with one of them.

He had a lady and two children behind them.

He flopped the reins about as we started,

And of course gave me several unmeaning cuts with the whip,

Though I was fairly off.

There had been a good deal of road mending going on,

And even where the stones were not freshly laid down there was a great many loose ones about.

My driver was laughing and joking with the lady and the children,

And talking about the country to the right and to the left,

But he never thought it worthwhile to keep an eye on his horse or to drive on the smoothest part of the road.

And so it happened that I got a stone in one of my forefeet.

Now if Mr.

Gordon or John,

Or in fact any good driver had been there,

He would have seen that something was wrong before I had gone three paces,

Or even if it had been dark,

A practice hand would have felt by the rain that there was something wrong in the step,

And they would have got down and picked out the stone.

But this man went on laughing and talking while at every step the stone became more firmly wedged between my shoe and the frog of my foot.

The stone was sharp on the inside and round on the outside,

Which as everyone knows is the most dangerous kind that a horse can pick up,

At the same time cutting his foot and making him most liable to stumble and fall.

Whether the man was partly blind or only very careless I can't say,

But he drove me with that stone in my foot for a good half mile before he saw anything.

By that time I was going so lame with the pain that at last he saw it and called out,

Well,

Here's a go.

Why,

They've sent us out with a lame horse.

What a shame.

Then he chucked the reins and flipped about with the whip,

Saying,

Now then,

It's no use playing the old soldier with me.

There's the journey to go,

And it's no use turning lame and lazy.

Just at this time a farmer came riding up on a brown cob.

He lifted his hat and pulled up.

I beg your pardon,

Sir,

He said,

But I think there is something the matter with your horse.

He goes very much as if he has a stone in his shoe.

If you will allow me I will look at his feet.

These loose scattered stones are confoundingly dangerous for the horses.

He's a hired horse,

Said my driver.

I don't know what's the matter with him,

But it's a great shame to send out a lame beast like this.

The farmer dismounted and,

Slipping his rein over his arm,

At once took up my near foot.

Bless me,

There's a stone.

Lame,

I should think so.

At first he tried to dislodge it with his hand,

But as it was now very tightly wedged he drew a stone pick out of his pocket and very carefully and with some trouble got it out.

Then holding it up he said,

There,

That's the stone your horse has picked up.

It's a wonder he did not fall down and break his knees into the bargain.

Well,

To be sure,

Said my driver,

That's a queer thing.

I never knew that horses picked up stones before.

Didn't you,

Said the farmer rather contemptuously.

But they do though,

And the best of them will do it,

And can't help it sometimes on such roads as these.

And if you don't want to lame your horse,

You must look sharp and get them out quickly.

This foot is very much bruised,

He said,

Setting it gently down and patting me.

If I might advise,

Sir,

You'd better drive him gently for a while.

The foot is a good deal hurt and the lameness will not go off directly.

Then mounting his cob and raising his hat to the lady he trotted off.

When he was gone my driver began to flop the reins and whip the harness,

By which I understood that I was to go on,

Which of course I did,

Glad the stone was gone,

But still in a great deal of pain.

This was the sort of experience we job horses often came in for.

Chapter 29.

Cockneys Then there's the steam engine style of driving.

These drivers were mostly people from towns,

Who never had a horse of their own,

And generally travelled by rail.

They always seemed to think that a horse was something like a steam engine,

Only smaller.

At any rate,

They think that if they only pay for a horse,

It's bound to go just as far and just as fast,

And with just as heavy a load as they please.

And by the roads heavy and muddy,

Or dry and good,

Be they stony or smooth,

Uphill or downhill,

It is all the same.

On and on and on,

One must go,

At the same pace,

With no relief and no consideration.

These people never think of getting out to walk up a steep hill.

Oh no,

They've paid to ride,

And ride they will.

The horse?

Oh,

He's used to it.

What were horses made for if not to drag people uphill?

Walk?

A good joke indeed.

And so the whip is plied,

And the rein is chucked,

And often a rough,

Scolding voice cries out,

Go along,

You lazy beast.

And then another slash of the whip,

When all the time we're doing our very best to get along,

Uncomplaining and obedient,

Though often sorely harassed and downhearted.

These steam engine style of driving wears us up faster than any kind.

I would far rather go twenty miles with a good considerate driver,

Than I would go ten with some of these.

It would take less out of me.

Another thing,

They scarcely ever put on the brake,

However steep the downhill may be,

And thus bad accidents sometimes happen.

Or if they do put it on,

They often forget to take it off at the bottom of the hill.

And more than once I've had to pull halfway up the next hill with one of the wheels held by the brake,

Before my driver chose to think about it.

And that is a terrible strain on a horse.

Then these cockneys,

Instead of starting at an easy pace,

As a gentleman would do,

Generally set off at full speed from the very stable yard.

And when they want to stop,

They first whip us,

And then pull us so suddenly that we're nearly thrown on our hunches,

And our mouths jagged with the bit.

They call that pulling up with a dash,

And when they turn a corner they do it so sharply as if there were no right or wrong side of the road.

I well remember one spring evening I and Rory had been out for the day.

Rory was the horse that mostly went with me when a pair was ordered,

And a good honest fellow he was.

We had our own driver,

And as he was always considerate and gentle with us,

We had a very pleasant day.

We were coming home at a good smart pace about twilight.

Our road turned sharp to the left,

But as if we were close to the hedge of our own side,

There was plenty of room to pass.

Our driver did not pull us in.

As we neared the corner,

I heard a horse and two wheels coming rapidly down the hill towards us.

The hedge was high,

And I could see nothing.

But the next moment we were upon each other.

Happily for me,

I was on the side next to 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 inside of us,

He had no time to pull over to his own side.

The whole shock came upon Rory.

The gag shaft ran right into his chest,

Making him stagger back with a cry that I'll 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,

They don't care.

And there was poor Rory.

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-wheeled cart behind him,

On which no brake could be placed,

Makes me sad to think of it now.

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 like that.

Ah,

She said in a troubled manner,

I know my paces are very bad,

But what can I do?

It's really not my fault.

It's just because my legs are so short.

I stand nearly as high as you,

But your legs are a good three inches longer above the knees than mine,

And of course you can take a much longer step and go faster.

You see,

I did not make myself.

I wish I could have done so.

I would have had long legs then.

All my troubles come from my short legs,

Said Peggy in a desponding tone.

But how is it,

I said,

When you are so strong and good-tempered and willing?

Why,

You see,

She said,

Men will go so fast,

And if one can't keep up with the other horses,

It is nothing but whip,

Whip,

Whip all the time.

And so I've had to keep up as I could,

And I've got this ugly shuffling pace.

It was not always so.

When I lived with my first master,

I always went a good regular trot,

But then he was not in such a hurry.

He was a very young clergyman in the country,

And a good,

Kind master he was.

He had two churches a good way apart,

And a great deal of work,

But he never scolded or whipped me for not going faster.

He was very fond of me.

I only wish I was with him now,

But he had to leave and go to a large town,

And then I was sold to a farmer.

Some farmers you know are capital masters,

But I think this one was a low sort of man.

He cared nothing about good horses or good driving.

He only cared for going fast.

I went as fast as I could,

But that would not do,

And he was always whipping.

So I got into this way of making a spring forward to keep up.

On market nights he used to stay very late at the inn,

And then drive home at a gallop.

One dark night he was galloping home as usual,

When all of the sudden the wheel came against some great heavy thing in the road,

And turned the gig over in a minute.

He was thrown out and his arm broken,

And some of his ribs I think.

At any rate,

It was the end of my living with him,

And I was not sorry.

But you see it will be the same everywhere for me if men go so fast.

I wish my legs were longer.

Poor Peggy.

I was very sorry for her,

And I could not comfort her,

For I knew how hard it was upon slow paced horses to be put with fast ones.

All the whipping comes to their share,

And they can't help it.

She was often used in the Phaeton,

And was very much liked by some of the ladies because she was so gentle.

And sometime after this she was sold to two ladies who drove themselves,

And wanted a safe,

Good horse.

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,

Said he.

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 any less afraid.

I think if he would have just let me look at things quietly,

And see that there was nothing to hurt me,

It would have been all right,

And I should have gotten used to them.

One day an old gentleman was riding with him,

And a large piece of white paper or rag blew across just 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's frightened,

And you only frighten him more and make the habit worse.

So I suppose all men don't do it.

I'm 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 was a deer of course.

I knew them as well as I did sheep or cow,

But they were not common,

And I know many sensible horses who are frightened by them,

And who kick up quite a shindy before they'll 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 as masters as Farmer Grey and Squire Gordon.

Of course we sometimes come in for good driving here.

I remember one morning I was put into the light gig and taken to a house in the 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 fit comfortably.

Do you consider this horse wants a curb,

He said to the hustler.

Well,

Said the man,

I should say he would do just as well without.

He has an uncommon good mouth,

And though he has a fine spirit,

He has no vice.

But we generally find people like the curb.

I don't like it,

Said the gentleman.

Be so good as to take it off,

And put the rein in the cheek.

An easy mouth is a great thing on a long journey,

Is it not,

Old fellow?

He said,

Patting my neck.

Then he took the reins,

And they both got up.

I can remember how quietly he turned me round.

And then with a light feel of the rein,

And drawing the whip gently across my back,

We were off.

I arched my neck and set off at my best pace.

I found I had someone behind me who knew how a good horse ought to be driven.

It seemed like the old times again,

And made me feel quite gay.

This gentleman took a great liking to me,

And after trying me several times with the saddle,

He prevailed upon my master to sell me to a friend of his who wanted a safe,

Pleasant horse for riding.

And so it came to pass that in the summer I was sold to Mr.

Barry.

Chapter 30.

A Thief My new master was an unmarried man.

He lived at Bath and was much engaged in business.

His doctor advised him to take horse exercise,

And for this purpose he bought me.

He hired a stable a short distance from his lodgings and engaged a man named Filcher as groom.

My master knew very little about horses,

But he treated me well,

And I should have had a good and easy place,

But for circumstances of which he was ignorant.

He ordered the best hay with plenty of oats,

Crushed beans and bran,

With vetches or ryegrass,

As the man might think needful.

I heard the master give the order,

So I knew there was plenty of good food,

And I thought I was well off.

For a few days all went on well.

I found that my groom understood his business.

He kept the stable clean and airy,

And he groomed me thoroughly and was never otherwise than gentle.

He had been in Hostler,

One of the great hotels in Bath.

He had given that up and now cultivated fruit and vegetables for the market,

And his wife bread and fattened poultry and rabbits for sale.

After a while it seemed to me that my oats came very short.

I had the beans,

But bran was mixed with them instead of oats,

Of which there were very few,

Certainly not more than a quarter of what there should have been.

In two or three weeks this began to tell upon my strength and spirits.

The grass food,

Though very good,

Was not the thing to keep up my condition without corn.

However,

I could not complain,

Nor make known my wants.

So it went on for another two months,

And I wondered that my master did not see that something was the matter.

However,

One afternoon he rode out to the country to see a friend of his,

A gentle farmer who lived on the road to Wells.

This gentleman had a very quick eye for horses,

And after he had welcomed his friend,

He said,

Casting his eyes over me,

It seems to me,

Barry,

That your horse does not look so well as he did when you first had him.

Has he been well?

Yes,

I believe so,

Said my master,

But he is not nearly so lively as he was.

My groom tells me that horses are always dull and weak in the autumn,

And that I must expect it.

Autumn?

Fiddle-stick,

Said the farmer.

Why,

This is only August,

And with your light work and good food he ought not to go down like this,

Even if it was autumn.

How do you feed him?

My master told him.

The other shook his head slowly and began to feel me over.

I can't say who eats your corn,

My dear fellow,

But I am much mistaken if your horse gets it.

Have you ridden very fast?

No,

Very gently.

Then just put your hand here,

Said he,

Passing his hand over my neck and shoulder.

He is as warm and damp as a horse just come from a grass.

I advise you to look into your stable a little more.

I hate to be suspicious,

And thank heaven I have no cause to be,

For I can trust my men,

Present or absent,

But there are mean scoundrels,

Wicked enough to rob a dumb beast of his own food.

You must look into it.

And turning to his man who had come to take me,

Give this horse a right good feed of bruised oats,

And don't stint him.

Dumb beast!

Yes,

We are,

But if I could have spoken,

I would have told my master where his oats went to.

My groom used to come every morning about six o'clock,

And with him a little boy who always had a covered basket with him.

He used to go with his father into the harness room where the corn was kept,

And I could see them when the door was ajar,

Filling a little bag with oats out of the bin,

And then he used to be off.

Five or six mornings after this,

Just as the boy had left the stable,

The door was pushed open and a policeman walked in,

Holding the child tight by the arm.

Another policeman followed and locked the door on the inside,

Saying,

Show me the place where your father keeps his rabbit's food.

The boy looked very frightened and began to cry,

But there was no escape,

And he led the way to the corn bin.

Here the policeman found another empty bag,

Just like it,

Filled with oats in the boy's basket.

Filter was cleaning my feet at the time,

But they soon saw him,

And though he blustered a good deal,

They walked him off to the lock-up,

And his boy with him.

I heard afterward that the boy has not been held to be guilty,

But the man was sentenced to prison for two months.

And that is the end of our story this evening.

Until next time,

Sweet dreams.

Reviews

These tales hurt my heart… but so important. Thank you✨🙏🏼✨

Love this story - even when it’s very painful (heartless humans! 🙈🐴)