Another year with Denise and Ned Toodles

Although Hart had been with Denise and her pets daily for the past three weeks, up to this time he had never undertaken to mount Ned. He had ridden in the carriage by the hour, and often driven him, but for some reason had never thought of getting upon his back. Denise had never revealed Ned’s peculiarities regarding boys, excepting to say that he did not like some boys, feeling, perhaps, that she might arouse distrust of her pet in her friend. But here was a crisis, and well enough she knew that there would be, as she mentally termed it, “a high old time” when Hart tried to get on Ned’s back, as she felt sure he meant to do when “Mr. Casey” sent in the order for a saddle-horse. However, Ned was not vicious, and the worst outcome of the venture would be a spill, which neither Hart nor she minded in the least. Now Ned’s usual procedure, when submitted to the indignity of a boyish burden, was to stand perfectly still until he had his victim safe upon his back, looking, meanwhile, the very picture of innocence and meekness, a sort of “what a good boy am I” expression. So when Hart gathered up the reins in the most scientific manner, for he had ridden all his life, and was a skillful little horseman, Ned wagged one ear wisely and “prepared for action.”

Hart placed his foot in the stirrups, adjusting the makeshift one to his satisfaction. “Now, old fellow, let’s show our paces!” he said, and Ned took him at his word. First a sedate walk, smooth and easy as a rocking-chair, but gradually growing more rapid. Charming! The walk is changed into a trot. Quite the Park gait. Now a gentle lope. Could anything be more perfect than that gait? His rider becomes more than ever assured that the animal he is bestriding is the most perfectly broken one he has ever ridden. All this time one wise eye is cocked knowingly backward to watch the boy upon his back, and note with great satisfaction that his confidence in his mount is momentarily increasing. Then! Off like a mad thing, tail up in the air, head down, and Tam o’Shanter’s imps in hot pursuit till about three blocks are told off. HALT! Down goes the head, up go the hind legs, and it is a skilled rider, indeed, who sticks on at the point of the game.

But this time Master Ned had reckoned without his host, for his host “didn’t spill worth a cent,” as that host himself asserted. Then came a tussle, and up and down the road tore that crazy little beast, bent upon dislodging Hart or dying in the attempt. Meanwhile “Mr. Andrews” had returned from giving the “Misses Murray” their outing, and was standing at the gate screaming with laughter. Hart’s hat had long since sailed into a neighboring field, and most of his attire looked as though he had dressed himself in the dark. But he was still on Ned’s back, and, so far as that bad little scamp’s efforts were concerned, liable to stay there for some time.

“Ned Toodles, how can you be so bad!” cried Denise, forgetful for the time being, that it was the royal antics of a royal king she was witnessing. Ned stopped short at that sound, and took time to consider the situation. Fatal moment! Fatal, at least, for Hart, for into that wise little horse noddle flashed an idea, and without a second’s hesitation was acted upon. With a wild, triumphant neigh, he wheeled short around, made a rush for an open gate at the end of the grounds, pelted through it like a monstrous cannon-ball, and a second later was in Buttercup’s cow-yard. Now Buttercup was the dearest cow in the world, and her eyes were beautiful to behold, and her coat like satin. But her barnyard—well, they are very nice places for—cows. Into this yard came Ned like a tornado, scaring poor Buttercup out of her wits, for, although upon the friendliest of terms, she had never before received a visit from him.

“So you won’t get off my back!” said Ned’s face and attitude, as plainly as words could have said it. “We’ll see!” and down he went flat upon his side. What happened next would better be left untold. Alas, for the pretty castor saddle! When Denise arrived upon the scene Ned was still resting from his labors, Hart stood staring at the peacefully reposing animal with a decidedly crestfallen air, and John had arrived upon the scene to “drop a casual word” regarding affairs in general.

Ned had never been whipped, but he came pretty near being that time, and did not forget his sound scolding, for after that an armistice was declared, and Hart was permitted to ride all he wished, Ned evidently feeling that he had earned a right to do so.

Not long after this Hart’s pony was given to him, and, although somewhat larger than Ned Toodles, as warm a friendship was formed by the two little horses as existed between their master and mistress. “Pinto,” as Hart’s pony was named on account of his peculiar marking, was a dear little beastie, although he never attained to the degree of intelligence that Ned displayed as the years went on. But that, no doubt, was due to the fact that he had not been so closely associated with a human being as Ned had been ever since he became Denise’s and as Mr. Lombard suspected he had been during much of his former life, although nothing for a long time was known of it, and it was not until this eventful summer that they learned his history.

Hart and Denise, mounted upon Ned and Pinto, ranged the country far and wide, and it was a far corner indeed that they did not find their way into sooner or later. Those spring months, with all their bud and bloom, were halcyon days for the children, for Hart literally lived at Mrs. Lombard’s house till Mrs. Murray said to her: “Emilie Lombard, when do you intend to send in my son’s board-bill? This is simply dreadful. He is hardly out of bed in the morning before he is making some excuse to come over here.”

“Let him come all he wants to. It is good for Denise to have such a sturdy playmate, for she has never had any real crony but Pokey, and she is such a gentle little soul that I’m afraid Denise will think more of her own way than some one else’s.”

“Well, you have no idea what it means to me to have that boy so happily associated,” exclaimed Mrs. Murray. “He has been abroad at school so long that I hardly know him myself, and isn’t in the least like our true, every-day American boys. And Denise is just the jolly little chum for him to have.”

“It all seems too delightful to be true,” said Mrs. Lombard, “and to have you for my neighbor after all these years of separation makes me feel like a young girl again.”

“You have never been anything else,” replied Mrs. Murray, “for you have stayed young with Denise, and that is the secret of your beautiful attitude toward each other.”

“Perhaps so,” replied Mrs. Lombard, a happy smile creeping about her lips as thoughts of the sunny little daughter and their mutual love put into her eyes the lovely “mother” light that never comes till that precious name becomes ours.

“Well, you must not let him remain to dinner every night, at all events,” added Mrs. Murray. “Send him home in time to dine with his father, or I do not know what will happen.”

“Very well, home he goes at the stroke of five, to remove all traces of the afternoon’s siege before Mr. Murray’s arrival at six.”

“Yes, do; it will be a real kindness, for my time is so occupied with the other children that I fear I have let Hart paddle his own canoe more than I should have done. But they are all so small that they need me more. Good-bye, and run in when you can. I am always disengaged between five and six.”

“And I am always engaged at that hour,” answered Mrs. Lombard with an odd smile, which made Mrs. Murray ask: “Afternoon tea, and a quiet little gossip with your best friends?”

“The gossip with my best friend, but not the tea,” answered Mrs. Lombard. “That is Denise’s hour with me, and I try never to let anything interfere with it.”

“What? Do you give up all that time to the child never mind what is going on? I should think it would be impossible at times!”

“There, of course, arise circumstances which make it impossible once in a while, but they are rare, and she is always ready to accept my explanations and apology,” answered Mrs. Lombard, with the gentlest expression.

“Explanations and apologies to one’s child!” cried Mrs. Murray in dismay. “You don’t mean to say that you carry things to that extent with her! I should think that she would be so conceited that you would never in the world be able to do a thing with her.”

A slight flush overspread Mrs. Lombard’s sweet face as she answered, “Could I hope to have her wholly courteous to me or to others if she found me wanting in courtesy to her?”