THE WILLING HORSE.

Hawera Star, Volume XLVIII, 2 August 1924, Page 14

THE WILLING HORSE.

FROM CITY TO COUNTRY A SIDELIGHT FROM THE FARM. (By G. Edith Burton.) Twenty-eight years of service on hard metalled roads is the records of one of the City Council’s horses, and surely that is a notable record for any horse. The added information that “he is still willing ” i s surely superfluous; it is the “willing” man, woman, and beast who goes on till he drops, “The willing horse for the hard road; the willing horse for the heaviest burden,” are household words, used more often certainly when referring to the human family. I have driven a cream-coloured pony whose years were known to be at least twenty-two, possibly four or five could be added to that, yet s he spanked along, often out-distancing everything on the road; her little feet as trim and shapely as a three-year-old. Still, it was a farm pony," and about twenty miles would be her average on metal for the week. Some time ago I was watching two horses drag a heavy load of metal up a steep pinch of hill. One, a rather light draught mare, was straining every inch, literally digging her toes into the road. Her mate, a heavier draught horse, was slacking. As they took a- breather at the top, the mare was trembling, and dripping with sweat, and her mate after heaving a. gentle sigh, closed hi s eves for a few minutes’ nap. “That’s a willing horse,” I said to the driver, and nodding towards the mare. ‘‘Willing!—l should think so; she’s too dashed willing, she’d pull her innards out to save this slug a pound or two,” and he dug the slug in the ribs with his whip. They are such pals that if I take him out alone she hangs over the gate, fretting all day.” And I knew this was perfectly true. No other animals become so strongly attached to one another as horses do. On a farm I have seen one of the plough-horses given a holiday, only to spend it walking up and down by the fence of an adjoining paddock, with the other horses yoked in the plough. And when an extra tempting patch of grass kept it behind for a furrow, a reproachful whinneying would come from the workers. I’ve heard an old ploughman call out in exasperation to a “spelled” horse: “If that’s all you know what to do with a spell, young fellar-me-lad, you’d better yoke up to-morrow.” Sometimes there appears in the papers an advertisement: “Sale of roadweary Horses.” What a picture of patient toil this conjures up, with a special little ache for keen lovers of horse. Usually they are sold to country folk; their day on metal roads is done. A harder life sometimes awaits them, but at least they will be in the country, where often the grass is plentiful, and the roads will be soft to their crippled feet. There will be no< more nervous tension trying, often vainly, to keep their feet on smooth wet concrete. It is always rather a distressing sight on a wet morning in the city to see huge horses nervously straining on the glassy roadbed to keep from slipping. Horses bought at these sales are not always prizes. I have heard many a good-natured farmer grumbling that a niost promisingrlo'pking bargain w.as{ almost useless for nearly a year. There are various reasons for this, but perhaps two of the most serious causes are the utter change of conditions, food, etc., and the fretting for old companions. City horses belonging to reputable firms receive the greatest care and are usually an eyeful of delight to the beholder. When I see a. team ,of horses with rippling glossy coats, with manes. carefully plaited, some even with ribbons interlaced in the plaits, I feel I want to go over to pat both driver and horses for the pleasure I get from the picture. Sometimes we are distressed by a case of sore hock, galled sides, and shoulders, but these cases are not very frequent. A man depending on his horses for a living knows they must be kept fit, and that is only looking at it from a commercial point of wiew.

These weary horses, then, are taken to the country (straight off their full rations of oats, bran, and chaff), where they usually have an entirely green diet, i.e., grass they crop themselves, and perhaps a little oaten hay or long chaff night and morning. Their shoes are removed, and though this is beautiful to play about with it is very painful at first to work like that, until the feet harden. The grooming they have had night and morning is altogether dropped, or it is done with the old farm currycomb, rusty and full of gaps, and with the dandy-brush, whose bristles are in isolated groups. If he is very muddy, he may only get a rub down with a bunch of fern. An old coachman used to tell me ' that “grooming’ is as good as half a feed, miss, so ’tis,” and I think he was right. After a few weeks of itching misery, the city horse learns to cleanse his skin, as country mates do. Over and over on a bare patch of ground, or a ploughed bit, then use the barbed wire fence as a curry comb. Then the solitary city horse, torn from his mates—for months he frets. Standing alone, with drooped head, and sagging lips, there actually are tears painfully rolling down his old nose. The young Woods, ready for a game, gallop ‘round hini in lessening circles, till a hold one finally gives him a gentle nip with lirm hard young lips. He never heeds them, and later he chums up with an old cow and her tethered calf. Happy are the horses sold in mate pairs, anil happy the farmer that gets them ] knew a. farmer who bought a miscellaneous lot .of four; two decent Jiall'drauglits, and two scrubbers. One only was quite normal, and he was a treasure. Me was named “Farmer,” and deserved it. A black mare, with an outrageous bend in her withers, wa s named “Buckjumper,” and she earned it Used as a. pack horse, she would behave beautifully for about two months at a time, then* suddenly when the last buckle was being done up some morning, there would be a flash of heels, and in twenty minutes the yard would be strewn with straps, buckles, goods, and saddle, and the mare would be bare She was often threatened with a gun, but I think finally, passed on to the Maoris. The thud purchase, a black and white pony was a miserable wreck, stumbling at every step. But in three months’ time he was sleek and sure-footed a regular marvel the boys said. The Maoris named him Tongata Mahia (knowing fellow) and he lived up to his reputation! for raising slip-panels, opening gates creeping into stalls, stealing and all sorts of horse-villany, he had no equal. The fourth horse must have been very amused when looking as mild as milk, he was christened Tommie. Like the black mare, he had a kink. At intervals he jibbed, and nothing under the sun would move him with whatever vehicle he had behind him. till he felt like it again. Half way up from the landing, with a cart full of long-looked-for goods, he would stop dead. Little of straw burned under him only made him give a frantic bound, to stop again in his

tracks. The boys, with a great show of cherry whistling, and slow murder in their hearts, would put in another horse, to get home. Tommie’s punishment was to stand for hours’ harnessed to whatever he refused to pull. This treatment of him almost broke the heart of a tender-hearted little maid, the youngest child. She would slip out after dark with a carrot or a bit of bread (horse feed and water were strictly forbidden for poor Tommie). Once when he was doomed (so the boys said) to stand all night in the roller, they went out at nine o’clock at night and found a little figure with her arms round the horse’s neck, sobbing passionately into his ear, “Oh, Tommie, if you’d only pull it. I’d push behind!” Needless to say. Tommie was again triumphant. The baby of the family could not be allowed' to break her heart like that. As time went on Tommie’s lapses were not punished. They were treated as an ordinary illness, and in between times he was staunch and stead v.