SAVED BY PIT PONY.

Taranaki Herald, Volume LX, Issue 143783, 6 May 1912, Page 7

SAVED BY PIT PONY.

HARRY la ADDER’S NARROW SHAVE. COMEDIAN RECALLS COLLIER DAYS. I am proud of the fact that I am an old coalminer (writes Harry Lauder in the Glasgow Weekly Mail). And I am equally proud to say that many of my oldest and dearest friends are men still engaged in the arduous, and, generally speaking, thankless, task of winning the black diamonds from the dark, dank depths of the mine. I was still a very little boy when I was promoted from “trapper” at Eddlewood Colliery, in Lanarkshire, to the full, and, as it seemed to me then, most honourable and dignified position of pony driver. X may explain that the duties of a trapper are to open and close the aircourse doors as the driver and his pony and “rake” of hutches passes out and in. Ho is supposed to do nothing else, and never to leave the doors on any pretext whatever. But it is only supposition, for the pony drivers in my time contrived to make the trappers do a good deal of their work for them, and they wore never backward in meeting a refusal with a bang on the jaw or a hearty kick. Many a time I sampled both courtesies ns a trapper and bestowed them when I became a driver! During the years I acted ns driver 1 had a great many ponies through ray bands, and at Eddlewood Colliery, Quarter Colliery, and elsewhere—in every pit I worked, either as man or hoy—l took a great interest in the imprisoned horses. And I would like, in common justice to my mining friends all over the west country of Scotland, to say right away that I very seldom came across cases of gross cruelty to any of the ponies in the mines where I was employed. Of course life below the surface is far from being a bed of roses either for man or horse, and it would be ridiculous—and untruthful — on my part to say that I had never seen a pony get roughly handled. As a matter of fact, many of thoso pit ponies are dour, “soor,” stubborn little devils, and havo to be rather forcibly dealt with from time to time.' They seem to become preternaturally shrewd after they have been down the pit for some time, and if you give them too heavy a “rake” they very soon let you know that they object to it, and, I have known them object in decidedly vicious fashion, too. Of course no pony, any more than the lad in charge of him, is in the mine for amusement. He is there to work. And Heaven knows ho is made to do it. I have heard stories of shocking ill-treatment of ponies, and I have no reason to disbeliovo them: but, as I have said before, I cannot at the moment personally recall many 7 instances of downright cruelty. Stay! Now that I come to think of it, I ONCE GOT A “THICK EAR” from another young miner because I tried to prevent him heating his pony with a great jagged lump of wood. I don’t suppose I would have objected had lie “laid on” in moderation, but he really went too far, and I “stuck up” for the unfortunate “pownie.” Then T bad to do the same for myself. But if I had got a thick car my opponent got a “bashed smeller,” and we finished quits. As a rule the average pit pony is a lovable little fellow, very willing to dn work and exceedingly responsive to kindness on the part of his driver. When I was a driver I was always good and kind to my “ sheltie.” Of course I can hear you say it would not do for him to write down everything else. Honestly, though, I was fond of the ponies. I made pals of them, took a pleasure in them, and I never met a pit pony yet that I conld not manage better by kindness than by blows. There wore many other boys like myself. But equally there were some who had hearts of stono, and who lost no chance of beating, aye, kicking, their charges on the slightest provocation. I once had a sweet wee irony called Captain. Standing about eleven hands high, he was the finest little fellow ever I saw “ doon the dock.” Everybody liked him, and" I loved him. I taught him all sorts of tricks, and , I believe that if I had had him long enough I could have taught him to speak. He could tell by scratching his forefoot on the ground how often he had been at the “face” for loads, and no watch was necessary, with Captain as a companion, to know when “lowsin’ time” had arrived. He conld steal, too, thanks to my training, and it was a source of endless amusement to some of the young men to see me give Captain permission to go on a foraging expedition. He would trot into the little cabih and extract from the jackets hanging there the bread and cheese which had been left over at piece-time. Then he would seize a flask containing tea—passing over all the empty ones—put it between his forehoofs, and pull out the cork with his teeth. This done, it was a simple matter for him to raise the flask above his head and drink its contents. If Captain heard a strange stop approaching ho was out of the cabin like a shot and off to his cornbin or his yoke of hutches. He was a “droll yin,” and no mistake. Once Wee Captain saved my life. We were going towards the coal face with a rake of empty hutches, and had to pass a “ drift ” —an old working road that had fallen in and been cut through. It was a very wild-looking chasm of 25 to 30 feet wide, and I always shuddered _ when I passed through it. On this occasion Captain stopped suddenly just as we were about to enter the drift. I did not know what was wrong with him, and shouted to him to “gee-up.” But ho would not stir a step. _ I then gave him a blow with my whip for his capers, but his answer was to turn sharply round and look in my face with a reproachful expression in his eyes. At that very moment the drift in front of ns closed with a tremendous crash. Captain’s instinct had told him that something was going to happen; his acute ears had heard warning sounds which to mine were quite unintelligible. When I realised what had taken place the tears came to my eyes. I threw my arms, round Wee Captain’s nock and kissed and cuddled him again and again. He appreciated my gratitude, and forgave mo that unmerited blow.

I havo known ponies in the mine become so clever that they conld do their work, and do it well, without ever a single word from their drivers. Had it been physically possible for them, I believe they would have “yoked” and “lowsed” themselves, and in this connection I may say I always noticed that the best ponies, from a working point of view, were those which wore kindly treated by their drivers. In the dull, flickering gleam of the minors’ lamps horses and men assume, down below, a ghostly, unnatural outline, but somehow or otkpr the ironies’ eyes always give out—at least they always seemed to me 1 to give out—a strange, weird radiance, and in that

radiance I was never tired of reading tliis message; “I’m only a poor wee pit pownie—a miserable little creature, with nothing to live for at all. I would like to see the grecu fields and the sunlight and breathe the fresh air of the beautiful world above. But 1 don’t suppose I ever shall: However, if you are good to mo, speak kindly to me, and don’t beat me, I’ll do my work as well as I can. And I’ll love you. Yes, lovo you very much, because you’re the only living thing I have to car© for or to care for me.’