Dobbin:

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXV, Issue 23109, 6 August 1938, Page 8 (Supplement)

Dobbin:

A True Story by D. E. Tyson

AS the title implies, Dobbin was r\ a horse, and although his proud owner carefully groomed the glossy mane and tail, patted the high, arched neck, and implanted many a soft kiss oil tho pointed nose of her favourite, ho was strangely unresponsive to her loving caress. Hard and indifferent though he soemed, he won the wholesale respect of all around, but nobody loved him like his little mistress. On fine, sunny days, when the birds sang gaily overhead, aiul tlje breeze whispered softly in the trees, she would mount the shining saddle, and with a wave of tho whip the two were off and away , . . over rolling hills, through gloomy woods, or along a steep mountain track

. . . yet strange to say, the four stiff legs did not move off the wooden platform on which they stood, for Dobbin was a wooden horse, you see. Many an adventure did the greathearted horse and the imaginative little girl share together. When "Noah" built his ark, it was Dobbin who obligingly became all the animals in turn, and was led up again and again on to the deck of the kitchen chair. Again, when '-'Queen Victoria" celebrated her Diamond Jubilee, it was Dobbin, marvellously transformed into the six cream ponies, who drew "Her Majesty" in the golden coach down the "Mall" of the garden path . . • and, history or not . . . when the wicked Red Indian, tomahawk in hand, (Vept up behind to scalp the unsuspecting "Queen" it was the wise Dobbin who whirled in his traces, galloped to the rear of the coach, and trampled the bad, bad man to death! Good times were shared together, and with a greater understanding, for from the beginning they had shared a guilty secret, too. One winter day, a long time before, a large, ungainly parcel had been placed in a corner of the 1 seldom used drawing room. "You must not touch this," commanded the little girl's mother. i —->n :£>i

"No, mamma, I won't," answered the little girl, screwing up her eyes as she tried to guess what the mysterious parcel contained. For a week, when the room was opened to be aired, she crept in, wondering what the queer object could be. Then one day, the curious little girl discovered a tiny hole in the thick brown paper. "Oh, could I just peep?" she whispered to herself. Down on her knees she crawled toward the parcel, and holding her breath, tried to see into the dark hole. Dare she make the wee hole a little bigger? Forgetting her promise, she reached out an eager hand . . . now she was touching the paper . . . now she was—"Mustn't touch itl" screamed a voice. The little girl jumped violently, and her finger caught into the torn edge of tho paper, making a long jagged tear.

Terrified, she looked around, but there was nobody in the* room! Only the voice of a guilty conscience could have spoken so dreadfully. When she looked at the parcel again she gave a cry of fear, for out of the rent there gleamed a wild accusing eye. "I am so sorry," sobbed the frightened child. "Please don't toll,'* : she implored. And Dobbin, for it was he, never, never told. Time slipped by, and the gallant horse seemed to shrink as his little mistress grew taller. , "I think Dobbin must go down into the cellar. He takes up too much room," was the remark made on spriugcleaning day. "Down into the cellar?" echoed Dobbin's owner, a little doubtfully. It was cold • and lonely in the cellar, and although she knew now that the wooden horse could not feel, she felt uncomfortable at the suggestion. She was too big to ride Dobbin of.course, and besides, she was learimig to ride a bicycle. i "Could I cover him up, mummieP" she asked suddenly. Smiling permission being given, Dobbin was installed in his new quarters, an old woollen capo wrapped round his •()<==>()<=^-()<=>o<=>()<=>()<=>()<=S

shoulders, and an offering of grass at his feet. • « • # # Years passed. . . Schooldays, holidays, college days, and the start of a career, and still the old horse stood patiently in the cellar, the old cape, dusty and moth-eaten, hanging limply over his back. "The people next door seem rather poor. The children have no toys," said the middle-aged woman to her grownup daughter "What about giving them your old wooden horse?" "Dobbin. Why! I had almost forgotten the dear old fellow. Of course, they can have him." answered the other. So Dobbin was brought up from his place of gloom, vigorously scrubbed and polished, and with a fresh coat of paint

on his saddle, and a new bridle in his open mouth, he stood as proud and gallant as ever. A week later, Dobbin's late mistress, feeling a little guilty toward her old love, looked over the garden fence. She gave an exclamation of surprise and grief, for scattered all over the untidy garden were the mutilated remains of her playfellow. One splintered leg lay across the dustbin lid, another, pierced with a dozen rusty nails, protruded from a mud-filled hole, while the dismembered body mingled with the timber of the wood pile. On the path lay the maneless head, and there seemed to be an expression of mute reproach in the faded eye. "Oh, Dobbin, poor, poor Dobbin," cried the girl. With a didl pain at her heart, she turned away hurriedlv, making for her room, where she wept bitterly and unashamed. —Original, by Patricia Millier, M.B.G. (18)