One of my favorite tasks at Birtwick Park was carrying the mistress when the whole family rode together.
The little girls would take turns on Merrylegs and Sir Oliver, while the squire usually rode Ginger.
I knew that the lady preferred me to Ginger because my mouth was more sensitive, making me easier and more pleasant to ride.
That made Ginger envy me.
"It's all because of the cruel men who trained me," she complained one day in the orchard.
Wise old Sir Oliver heard her and said, "Don't be so hard on yourself.
You carry the squire's weight easily and still maintain your gaits, your fine ways of walking.
That's nothing to be ashamed of.
Besides, we horses should be content and willing as long as we're treated kindly."
He swished his tail for emphasis.
Sir Oliver's tail was very short—only six or seven inches long.
I'd often wondered what accident had shortened it, and so I asked him now.
"Accident?" Sir Oliver let out a fierce snort. "It was no accident.
When I was young, my original owner had it cut off on purpose—flesh, bone, and all!"
"That's awful!" I exclaimed.
"Indeed it was," Sir Oliver agreed.
"And it was not only the pain, though that was bad enough.
I am left without enough tail to brush the flies off my sides and hind legs.
The rest of you can't imagine what that's like.
They can bite me all day long, and I'm helpless to flick them away as you can without thinking about it."
"But why did they cut off your tail?" Ginger asked.
"For fashion," Sir Oliver replied. "Nothing more."
"It must be fashion that makes some humans strap our heads up with the checkrein as well," Ginger said.
"Yes. It's also fashion that makes them strap those blinkers to our heads when we drive so we can't see anything to the sides," Sir Oliver replied.
Justice looked up from his grazing.
"The blinkers are supposed to prevent horses from shying and causing accidents," he said in his calm way.
"Then why don't they put them on riding horses?" I asked.
"I suppose that's because of fashion," Justice admitted.
"True. Blinkers are especially dangerous at night, when horses can see better than humans," Sir Oliver said.
"I have heard of many accidents that could have been prevented if the horse had been able to see all around him."
We horses were not the only ones who thought badly of such things.
The squire might still put blinkers on us when we pulled a cart or carriage.
But he disliked checkreins as much as Ginger did.
One day out on the road, the squire and I passed a team of fine horses.
The driver was a friend of the squire's.
He asked the squire what he thought of the new team.
"They're a handsome pair," the squire replied.
"But I see you still insist on lessening their power."
"Oh, you mean the checkrein?" the other man said.
"I like to see my horses hold their heads up."
"So do I, but I prefer to see them do so on their own," the squire said.
"Besides, if you don't let them throw all their weight into their work, it wears them out faster."
"Maybe you're right, my friend," the other man said.
"I don't promise to change my ways.
But I do promise to think about what you've said."
The squire tried to discourage people from being cruel to animals in any way he could.
For instance, one day we were riding toward home.
We came into view of the Birtwick Park gate just in time to see a pony cart approaching.
The delicate little pony was being driven by a large, strong man.
When the cart neared the gate, the pony turned toward it.
With a growl the man yanked the pony's head around so strongly that the pony almost fell over.
But the pony recovered and started forward again.
The man wasn't satisfied with that.
He lifted his whip and began lashing the pony cruelly.
The squire urged me forward until we were beside the cart.
"Mr. Sawyer!" he called in a stern voice.
"Is that pony made of flesh and blood?"
"Yes, and temper too," the other man retorted. "I didn't ask him to turn there.
He needs to learn to do only as I say."
"You've driven that pony to my place many times," the squire said.
"How could he know you weren't going there again?
Remembering the turn only shows his intelligence. But that's not the point.
Your cruel treatment of that creature shows your own poor character."
Sawyer didn't respond to that.
But he stopped whipping the pony and drove on, leaving me glad to have such a kind master.