Denny Bog.
V.—SKEWBALD’S NEIGHBOURS
Wandering over moor and heath, and through the deep woods, Skewbald while yet a foal got to know the wild life of the forest, for, as with all young things, life to him was more than mere eating, and he was full of curiosity about everything that went on around him.
In the evenings he would see the rabbits, first little and then big, come out of their holes, their white scuts flashing as they gambolled. If they “froze,” their quiet umber tint assimilated with the surrounding hues, so that their outline was lost, and sometimes the colt, going towards a patch of herbage, saw nothing but a great black eye gazing at him, until, on a nearer approach, a young rabbit materialized, and loped away. On summer mornings when the dew was heavy, the bunnies looked almost black because of their drenched fur. They would have all day to comb and smooth it out underground. Early one morning he saw a doe rabbit with a mouthful of grass, sticking out on both sides of her muzzle, like a great green moustache; she went below with it, her two little ones following.
Hares he did not see so often, and they sat so quietly in their “forms,” that he was not aware of their presence until he nosed up against them. But he once saw a hare anything but quiet. On a bare patch of gravel near the railway, where hares were in the habit of crossing, a big jack hare was writhing and squirming without moving from the spot, and Skewbald went up to see this strange sight. The creature, of course, was in a gin, though the foal was not to know that. Not being afraid of hares, he got quite close, and, as the entrapped one did not move off, but still strained and struggled, he gave a mischievous little stamp to drive him away. Now, the poor hare was caught by a fore toenail only, and Skewbald happening to press with his hoof on the spring the jaw opened, and the prisoner was set free; but his fore-leg was so strained by the tension, that when he put weight on it, he fell over, and squirmed as before.
Skewbald, very interested, touched him, and the hare made off on to the track, where again he fell and writhed, Skewbald watching through the railings, until the noise of an oncoming train reminded the stricken one that he still had three legs to run on. The following spring Skewbald again witnessed the hare in motion, and this time there were two. The pair were on a level stretch, and indulging in an orgy of violent movement. They chased one another, turning and doubling, taking turns to be pursued and pursuer, till one stopped and crouched, the other jumping over its back. Then they ran apart in tangential circles which brought them face to face, whereupon they stood up on their hind-legs, and thumped one another with their forepaws like boxers. They acted as madly as any other pair of March hares.
Instinct and his mother taught Skewbald to notice all that was going on, to keep his eyes “skinned.” When they were in the woods, the harsh notes of the jays made him start, and from his mother’s movements, he learned that someone was about. Once in spring, browsing on the young shoots of a hawthorn-bush, he almost nosed against two dormice fresh from their long rest, sleek and tawny bright, among the green tufts.
The squirrels he could not help seeing, and when he stopped, and looked at them sitting on the low boughs of a fir, making short work of the cones, they stamped peevishly with their hind-feet, making quite a noise, as the rabbits did on the ground. Once he witnessed a curious and beautiful sight which lasted but a moment. A squirrel pursued another, going round and round a tree-trunk as they descended, so quickly that they left on the eye the impression of a reddish streak, drawn spirally round the trunk. This again was in spring, and, like the mad antics of the hares, a love chase.
Sometimes a fox trotted by, or sat up and looked at him impudently, and, as it happened, he got tolerably familiar with a family of foxes. The lair was in a bank between the roots of an old oak. Skewbald’s mother, as she went by, snuffed the air, and indeed, the smell, whether of fox or high viands, was perceptible even to human nostrils. So Skewbald snuffed too, and whenever he passed the hole, the odour reminded him of what dwelt there. One fine evening, as he idled at a little distance, he perceived movement outside the hole. It was not rabbits, so he went closer, and saw the little fox cubs, lithe and furry. One lay on its back gnawing at a moorhen’s wing, two were engaged in a tussle, and one curled into a ball with his tail over his nose, pretending to be asleep; but when the vixen came up, and, after looking round, sat down calmly amidst her family, the mischievous cub got up, came behind her and worried her tail, until she turned, and seized him in her jaws, so that he yelped.
After this, Skewbald, when his company came that way, looked out for the cubs, but he saw little more of them, for the older they grew, the later they came out, until it was night before they emerged, and then it was not for play but work, learning to hunt for their living.
Skewbald and his mother sometimes sunned themselves by a bank crowned with lichened thorns. It was quite a badger fortress, being honeycombed with passages. A certain family which camped by it one August must have occasioned the badger some inconvenience, for they used the great holes as dustbins, stuffing down newspapers, tins, tea-leaves and coffee grounds, and other rubbish. But they never set eyes on him, not even on moonlight nights. Probably he used an exit on the other side of the bank while the campers were about. But Skewbald sometimes saw him after dusk, coming or going with his rolling gait, or appearing at the mouth of his den with sniffing snout and uplifted paw. Once the foal came upon him in broad day, and sunny at that. He was fast asleep, nearly hidden in a great nest of dried grass and bracken in a sheltered corner.
Sometimes, though probably he was unaware of it, the colt walked over little sharply pitted tracks which were the slots of the deer. Only once did he see that rare and shy British mammal, the roedeer. Skewbald was strolling in a forest ride, when, all at once, a delicate fawn-coloured shape with two uplifted sharp horn spikes emerged from a fern brake, and paused with raised fore-foot and twitching ears before venturing across the grassy space, and like a shadow his mate followed him.
In the thick woods, he sometimes saw the other deer, mostly fallow, the buck with widely branching palmate antlers, but occasionally a great red deer.
One September midday, mother and foal were wandering down a wide drive in the woods, when strange noises came to the foal’s ears, people shouting, baying of hounds and blowing of horns. He ran close to his mother, who, though not alarmed, raised her head and snuffed the air with interest. People with horns no longer hunted ponies, and she had no apprehensions of capture.
Presently a buck topped the bank, and shot across the drive, a mere rusty brown streak, gone as soon as seen. The noise of the hounds wavered, and grew fainter. The buck had eluded them. Then in the distance a huntsman appeared coming up the drive on a tall white horse. He was a fine sight in his black velvet cap, dark green coat with brass buttons, and his horn ready to hand. He stopped by a gate watching the drive, not knowing he was too late. On the hill out of sight were the three men in brown velveteen, each holding a team of the leashed hounds; young and swift these, waiting to be put on the track of the quarry when the slow old hounds, or “tufters,” had got the scent, and mounted hunting folk waiting or patrolling the forest glades. But the noise and the sight of the buck was all that Skewbald experienced, that day, of a forest buck-hunt.
After being warned by his mother, Skewbald kept as respectful a distance from harmless grass-snakes and slow-worms as from vipers. He even jumped when the little brown lizard ran across the path in front of him. And doubtless he sometimes found the open door of the home of the underground wasp, and quickly removed his nose and himself from its proximity. More rarely he saw the brown paperish globe of the wood-wasp hung from a low branch, with a hovering swarm of wasps like a yellow halo round it.
As for “stoats,” heathflies, and the tickling, crawling New Forest fly, they are, in hot weather, the torment of a forest pony’s life, and the less said about them the better.
Of birds, he knew most familiarly the stonechat, always on the topmost spray of a gorsebush, both in summer and in winter, with his little jerking tail and monotonous “tick-tack” note. Sometimes he would see the stonechat’s relative, the wheatear, standing on a stone or clod of earth, with the same flirting of the tail; the attitude alert and vigilant, his black eye-streak emphasizing his suspicious glance.
In the evening he heard the “hoo-hoo” of the tawny owl, and might have seen him sitting upright on the low branch of a willow, close to the trunk; and once in broad daylight, as he was nibbling at the bark of the branches of a stubby hollow holly, a blotched form appeared at the opening as if in response to the noise he made before her door; then with a couple of wing-beats, the little owl flew up into the higher branches and looked at him with fierce gold-rimmed eyes, and irritable movements of her head.
Now and then he came across a small covey of partridges dusting themselves in a sandy patch, or sunning on a bank. Once in May, as he put his nose to a tussock, a sitting partridge gave it a sharp peck. All that season he looked into tussocks warily, and one day he came upon what looked like two partridges sitting together; but the one outside the nest was a cock-bird, as could be seen by his red ear-lobes and absence of cross-bars on his wings. As Skewbald looked, a little head peeped out from under his father’s wing and piped. Then there was more chirping, and from under the mother emerged a tiny chick, and in a moment was lost in his male parent’s feathery recesses. That faithful husband and father was on duty, receiving each little chick as it hatched, and “drying them off.”
One of Skewbald’s most interesting glimpses of his bird neighbours concerned another family party. He was standing one evening in June by a great brake of gorse on a bank, near a little stream, when he heard a flutter of wings, and a great bird alighted, a shelduck, glorious in her black, white, and chestnut plumage, crimson neb, and coral legs—a bird which one associates with the sandy shores of North Wales or the dunes of Norfolk. Yet here she was, and after looking round, she walked towards a rabbit-hole at the foot of a gorsebush, put her head in, and vanished.
A little later the foal and his mother were drinking at the stream very early in the morning, when a subdued but anxious croaking was heard, accompanied by a “cheeping” from tiny throats, and the shelduck came into view marshalling a long line of the prettiest, fluffy, pied little ducklings, negotiating all sorts of obstacles. And not one parent only, for the father, larger and still more resplendent than his mate, and quite as concerned and anxious, brought up the rear of the procession. Once or twice he whistled shrilly, as he intercepted an errant ball of down, and sent it into the right path. When they tumbled into the tiny stream, at once the youngsters were at home and self-confident. The drake saw them all afloat, and again the procession re-formed to paddle down-stream to the sea. What adventures were they to meet with, and how many would the parents bring safely to the seashore, to run along the margin of the tide, in their pied down indistinguishable from the foamy froth washing over the seaweed? It was perhaps ten miles to their destination, with many enemies in wait—hawks, foxes, badgers, pike, and man.
Later in the season a naturalist, not a sportsman or collector, armed only with his monocular prismatic, passed the shelduck’s burrow, and a feather caught his eye. He stooped, and picking it up, scrutinized it closely. By its white, black and chestnut, he knew at once from what bird it had fallen and that doubtless this was her nesting site.
But perhaps one of the most thrilling sights to be seen in the forest by a lover of birds was what Skewbald first beheld one cold April morning. A rough untidy yearling after his winter outdoors, he wandered down to the brook, where on a muddy patch broad three-toed footprints had been freshly impressed. Loose feathers, white, black, and brown, caught his eye, and as he sniffed at them he heard a strange musical phrase, with a humming vibratory timbre—
—which seemed to fill the air, and was repeated again and again.
Skewbald looked around, and on a little rise crowned by a grove of birches were several birds about the size of pheasants. Two were a deep blue-black, and there were several smaller, mottled grey and brown. The black grouse still lives in the New Forest, though sadly depleted in numbers, and what the yearling saw was the spring assembly, or “lekking.” The two cock-birds were going through some strange manœuvres. One which had been sitting in the fork of a tree, with his beautiful lyre-shaped tail showing to advantage, flew to the ground. He drooped his wings, lowered his outstretched neck, which, with every feather on end, looked twice its usual size, then brought up his middle tail vertically with the curved extremities hanging down, so that from the front it looked somewhat like an admiral’s cocked hat. His silvery-white undertail coverts were raised, and expanded like a fan. It was this view he displayed to the presumably admiring hens, though as far as one could see, they took not the least notice of their admirers. Meanwhile he hummed the song already indicated. Then the other bird came forward, got up like the first, and the real business commenced. With outstretched necks and distended crimson eyebrows, they fenced with each other, until one, taking courage, flew at his rival, and there was a rough-and-tumble struggle, only ended when one had had enough. Then the victor strutted about, and renewed his song.
VI.—WINTER
It was midwinter and “bad pony weather”—that is, the atmospheric conditions were likely to upset the less hardy and the younger members of the herds. For a month there had been a succession of torrential gales from the south-west blotting out the “Wight,” so that the thickest pony thatch was drenched, and when, as had happened several times, a hard frost followed a heavy downpour, the ponies suffered severely from cold, and the youngsters’ constitutions were sorely tried.
Skewbald’s mother sheltered herself and him all ways that an old forest pony knew. In the heaviest storms she took him to the shelter of thick hollies or dense spruce groves, but even a forest pony must eat, and in spite of wet, they had to leave the protection of the woods for the open ground, where most of their provender was to be obtained. Skewbald, from some inherited strength of fibre, suffered less than other youngsters, many of whom were “caught in” with their mothers by the more careful owners, and given food and shelter.
The chestnut and her foal were among those left out all the winter. Continued frost meant little to them, protected as they were by their thick coats. Skewbald, especially, had done his best to keep himself warm. A great shock of hair came over his eyes, his mane hung in a thick mass on his neck, his tail nearly reached the ground and kept his thighs warm, while his body and legs looked half as thick again, from the growth of long hair which covered him right down to the hoofs. Only his nose was soft and velvety much as in summer.
After a heavy fall of snow, the mare showed her son how to kick and scrape away until the herbage was reached. She taught him to nibble at the gorse, hard and prickly though nutritious; with retracted lips nipping off the spikes full of aromatic buds, and grinding the prickles to shreds before swallowing. When the foresters cut down hollies, she was soon on the spot, showing the youngster how to tear off the sweet bark of the branches hacked from the poles.
On sunny mornings after sharp frost, he would lie down in the bracken, tuck his legs under him, and doze, warm and comfortable, for hours. If it rained, he followed his mother, and learned the trick of keeping his back to the wind, thus lessening the surface exposed.
* * * * *
The agister riding across the moorland heard a mare neighing, and when she repeated her call several times, trotted his mount towards her. She was a bay roan, and after another plaint ran a little way, and stopped. As the rider came to a clump of high gorse, he saw a foal lying in a sheltered nook. One glance showed him it was dead, a poor thin “sucker” with legs outstretched stiffly. “Should have been taken in before,” he muttered to himself; “that’s the youngster I told Sam Evett about a week ago. Some people aren’t to be trusted with animals.” On his way back he came across first one and then another young pony looking “seedy,” and these with their mothers were gently guided to the nearest farmyard, where they would be taken care of until their owners fetched them away.
That night the weather became worse than ever. The storm raged through the woods, roaring in the pines and swaying the birches and beeches, while dead branches snapped off with cracks like rifle-fire. Skewbald and his mother were sheltering on the lee side of a giant beech. If it had been day, the trail of dead oyster fungus up its trunk would have told its tale of inner decay. The mare became uneasy, and moved away from the shelter of the vast column. She called to Skewbald, who followed, but feeling the bite of the freezing wind, backed behind the trunk again. There was a tremendous crack, a tearing and rending, and the great bole snapped off above the colt’s head, and crashed to the ground, the trunk still poised at its line of fracture, held by bark and sound wood, so that Skewbald was untouched and unhurt.
VII.—THE RIVAL LEADERS
A cold north-easter blew across the moor. The old thorns were budding, the daffodils were peeping from the turf, and the yellow of the gorse was beginning to show, so spring was at hand, but there were few other signs of it, for the season was late. If the chiffchaff had come, he had no time to make his presence known by song, his food was all too rare.
The chestnut mare and her son wandered on the sheltered side of holly and tall gorse, picking up what they could. Skewbald, now termed a yearling though not yet a year old, showed conspicuously in the landscape in his chestnut and white. But he was ragged and untidy to the last degree. His doormat-like coat was torn and tangled by conflict with the thorns. His face and neck had the same patchy appearance. But for the coarseness of his covering, his ribs would have shown, for, apart from his not yet having filled out, the severe weather had kept him “light.” His legs were still bony and ungainly, and he was plainly in the hobbledehoy stage. But he had a good gait, the bones of his shoulders and hind-quarters were of great strength, with plenty of room for muscular attachments, and when he walked, he covered plenty of ground.
The ponies wandered—wandered because they had not time to stand back to the wind as do stall-fed cattle, for both day and night was wanted for finding sustenance.
The mare had joined a herd led by a small but energetic stallion, whose shade of blackish-brown, and “mealy” or light-coloured nose, proclaimed his streak of Exmoor blood. Unlike Skewbald and other ponies, he had been looked after during the winter, and having only lately been turned out into the forest, was in splendid condition. He was full of spirit, alert, and mistrustful of the unusual, while as master of the herd he brooked no disobedience. One day after the herd had drunk at a favourite shallow, they were moving to another feeding-ground, and the stallion, looking over his company, noted the chestnut mare still standing motionless. Either she had not fully slaked her thirst or some old association made her reluctant to leave. The leader walked to her and snorted. She turned her head, but made no other sign of acquiescence, whereupon he lost patience, bared his teeth, depressed his ears, and made a little run at her as if to bite, when she at once made haste to comply with his command.
On the way, the party was joined by a young stallion of a blue roan hue, with white forehead blaze and pink nose, accompanied by an old bay mare with her yearling. For a time, the three having fallen in at the rear, all went well, but presently the grey left his place, and went forward as if for the express purpose of creating trouble for himself, for the leader, by his depressed ears and backward glance, showed that he considered he had a rival in the field, and was ready to take up the implied challenge. The grey was taller, but not in such good condition, having been left out during the winter.
The mealy-nosed stallion took to making little rushes at the interloper with extended neck and bared teeth. The younger at first contented himself by retreating or swerving, but at last the touch of teeth on his neck aroused his resentment and combativeness. He turned sharply, and flinging out his heels, kicked the leader on the shoulder. It was the first real blow, and as if by signal, the two reared up, and with fore-feet striking vigorously, tried to bite one another on the face and neck, until they had to come down to rest. Then the little stallion in his turn reversed, and let out a kick which took effect on his opponent’s hind-quarter. The grey screamed with pain and fury. Rearing, he threw himself at his enemy, knocked him down, and, unable to keep his balance, rolled right over him. The leader was up first, and standing on his prostrate opponent, belaboured him with his hoofs. The grey cried out under this treatment, and when he succeeded in getting to his feet, his adversary rushed at him with jaws agape and bristling mane, so that he fairly turned tail. Then the mealy-nosed one trumpeted shrilly, shook himself, pushed past the waiting herd to the head, and resumed the journey.
They crossed a road, and went down a rutted path, and this for a few yards became a causeway across an obviously boggy patch. The road had been made by dumping gravel into the swamp, its sides being strengthened by balks of timber. Near the edges of the bog, patches of lush grass, emerald of hue, were beginning to sprout. Skewbald strolled down to sample this luxury, but was recalled to her side by his mother’s sharp whinny. She knew the temptation this verdant growth had for youngsters, and its danger. A moment later, a tragedy occurred. A poor-looking, black yearling, motherless for some reason, strayed from the path, to nibble at a tempting patch, a yard or so from the edge. He walked confidently to it, but after a mouthful, sank below his knees, and a cry of fright broke from him. The herd showed signs of distress, and shrill whinnyings came from the mares as they plunged to and fro along the margin; but the colt’s efforts to reach his companions only involved him the more surely in the morass.
* * * * *
A few bubbles rising to the surface of what was now a muddy pool told of the disaster which had occurred. The bog keeps its secrets, and no one knows how many ponies have been engulfed in it.
The Hill Road to Burley.
VIII.—SKEWBALD IN TROUBLE
Spring had come at last. The cold east winds had been followed by warm south-westerly gales with soft rain, making the grass grow and filling the bogs also. The golden-yellow of the marsh-marigold at the stream’s edge was repeated in a lighter key by the stunted wild daffodils in the forest meadows, and again in higher but more diluted tone by the primroses on the banks outside the woods. The blackthorn was past its prime, but the bushes were still covered with blossom now looking like soiled snow. The oaks and beeches were still in bud only. The thorns had put out tufts of vivid green, drowning the grey-green of their lichened branches. In the swampy spots the catkins of the bog myrtle shone in the sun with extraordinary brilliance, presenting great patches of that rare colour in wild floral nature—deep orange and orange-scarlet.
Of course, the birds were here. Not only the residents, the stonechat and the little hedge and field birds, and the rook, crow, kestrel, and heron, but the migrants also. The chiffchaff uttered his name continually as he hunted in the scraggy budding oaks, the willow-warbler repeated his wavering refrain, crescendo and diminuendo, very like the bends in the “tail” in “Alice in Wonderland;” and the whitethroat was beginning to throw himself in ecstasy above the bushes. The blackcap flew from bough to bough, as he shrilled his wild, inconsequent, yet melodious and captivating song, while the garden-warbler skulked in the bushes, chuckling and fluting throatily at great length; the nightingale began to “jug,” while his shorter but more richly coloured mate industriously collected oak-leaves for her nest. In the beechwoods the woodwren flitted from bough to bough, repeating his clear call, followed by a twittering cadence like ice tinkling in a glass, while his wings quivered in time with his tune.
Above the moor the cock lapwing made occasional flights to amuse his sitting partner, flapping his rounded wings vigorously as he flew all ways, curving downwards to the ground without alighting and up again in another sweep, then “reversing” in his characteristic way. Meanwhile the redshank stood on the bog bobbing his head nervously, or whistled shrilly to his mate, if a crow or a man appeared on the horizon. The redshank likes to nest near the lapwing, which is as brave as the other is timid, dashing threateningly down on an intruder, especially its ancient enemies—crow, jackdaw, and harrier.
Out on the moor lawns of green grass showed amongst the heather, and in the bogs, amidst the bleached tussock grass, were patches of new grass of the most vivid emerald, looking, and most deceptively so, like firm sward.
There are many bogs in the forest, varying from patches a few yards square to huge ones covering many acres. In Denny Bog still lie the remains of an aeroplane which landed on the smooth and, to an eye looking from above, apparently firm surface. The pilot, on getting out of the fuselage, was soon up to his waist; and in spite of repeated efforts, it was found impossible to extricate the plane, and the salvers had to content themselves with removing the engine.
To the human visitor the bog has no terrors, for its dead yellowish grass with green patches and occasional pools proclaim its nature. Moreover, causeways of gravel have been made across narrower parts where necessary.
Skewbald and his mother were wandering as usual on the moor, the rest of the herd strung out over a square mile of forest, hillside, and grass bottom, too intent on making up for their scanty winter fare to desire the close companionship of their fellows.
Skewbald was much the same as a month before, perhaps a little more ragged, as his loosening winter dress got carded out by the thorns.
The two were on the outskirts of a great bog, to the south of which extensive woods filled the horizon. They were not alone. A little distance away two gipsies, a man and a boy, were following the edge of the bog, striding from tussock to tussock and probing with their sticks for bad places which might let them in.
There was no difficulty in divining what they wanted. The lapwings screaming overhead, the redshanks wailing as they flew right away, knew also that their eggs were in danger. Plovers’ eggs are part of the gipsy’s livelihood—to sell, because they are too precious for him to eat. He would say that he found far more in a hen’s egg.
As the egg-hunters quartered the ground, they approached the ponies, which, judging from their movements that they themselves were not likely to be molested, ignored their proximity. The boy, when abreast of Skewbald, suddenly raised his stick, and from pure mischief or rather fun, ran at the yearling, which, startled, bounded off, but in the direction of the bog. He plunged about and sank deeply, while his strenuous efforts to extricate himself only caused him to become more firmly embedded. Soon he could no longer move his legs, the mud reached his flanks, and he was still sinking, though now more slowly.
The man stormed at the boy standing open-mouthed in dismay, then looking round began to run, calling to the other to follow. He was making for a promontory of firm ground stretching into the bog. Here stood a few stunted pines which a fire had caught, for they were black and dead, some already lying on the ground. Both loaded themselves with the fallen logs, staggered back to the yearling, and began to throw the wood on the bog towards him. Skewbald, incapable of motion save for frenzied movements of his head and neck, was aghast at his plight, and called piteously to his mother, who plunged backwards and forwards along the edge of the bog, whinnying distractedly.
The man waded out and pushed log after log under the yearling’s belly. Then he got a pole under him behind the fore-legs. His next action was to bend down and feel in the mud to ascertain if the pony’s legs were straight. A forcible pull on a bent leg might cause a fracture. His preparations made, he put all his strength into levering up the pole, calling: “Now, Jarge, let ’un have what for;” and the boy, with a stick, belaboured the yearling’s hind-quarters. Skewbald felt himself moved by the man’s force, and, under the added stimulus of pain, made tremendous exertions. The man made another effort, and a fore-leg came up. “At ’un again, lad;” and the harassed yearling, with a great heave and an explosive “suck,” came out of the mud and began to flounder towards the firm ground, leaving the two half-bogged themselves. The man reached out and pulled the boy towards him, and they worked their way out.
They were covered with mud from head to foot, and regarded each other doubtfully, until the man laughed (a smile would not have been perceived), whereupon the boy exploded in peals of merriment. Their hearts were warm within them, with the pleasure of success, for horseflesh or ponyflesh is dear to the gipsy. Then, picking up the eggs they had collected, which, being gipsies, they had carefully deposited in a tussock, they departed.
But Skewbald carried a long scar on his belly, caused by a sharp pine knot, to the day of his death.
IX.—THE NEW-COMERS
It was full spring. For nearly a month May had flooded the forest with sunlight. The gold of the gorse was blinding to the eye, and almost intoxicating with its strong scent of burnt almonds. The powdery snow of the blackthorn had been followed by the ropy, pinkish bloom of the hawthorn. The foliage of the scraggy oaks was Italian pink (which is a greenish yellow), while the silver birches and the beeches had burst into leaf and emerald tassels had succeeded the crimson buds of the larches. The brambles had two distinct sets of leafage, those of last year, old and tattered, but magnificently blotched with crimson and orange, and edged with sienna, while from their axils sprays of tender green unfolded themselves.
This is the month of song, and everywhere the larks and meadow-pipits rose in the air, the former to go up out of sight still trilling, while the latter ceased singing, and came floating down silently like parachutes of brown paper.
The lapwing chicks peeped from their mother’s wings, or crawled over her back like the young of the domestic hen. If an enemy flew over, the male bird rose in the air in a frenzy of militant defence, while at the parents’ warning call, the chicks crouched and became, to the casual glance, invisible.
As for the pony population of the forest, it seemed to have doubled in numbers all at once, for everywhere the young foals followed the mares, or lay basking among the heather. The early foals were now tall and long-legged, though here and there a late arrival stood unsteadily with bent hind-legs, or trotted a few paces with a stiff-legged gait. It might even essay a gallop, a curiously mechanical action, reminding one of a rocking-horse.
One mare, at least, had two little suckers, and here and there quite a family procession passed, of mare, two-year-old, yearling, and foal, the property of someone who had not troubled to sell the youngsters, preferring to leave them in the forest to breed. Parties of three—mare, yearling, and sucker—were quite common, the two youngsters on the best of terms.
The hues of the new-comers were sometimes exactly those of their mothers, but often quite different. An old mare, once a grey but now dirty white, was followed by a black foal; if the latter were closely scrutinized its eyebrows might be seen to be grey, and that would mean the foal would turn grey like its mother, and again white in old age—from black to white. But if the eyebrows were black like the rest of the body, then probably the hue would remain black or very dark, for black is rare in the forest, and as some think due to importation of alien blood. In the case of one chestnut foal, its darker eyebrows showed that when adult its coat would be of a rich liver colour.
The majority of the foals bid fair to be like their parents, a dark brown with blackish mane and tail, and the same similarity existed with bays and chestnuts, though generally the foals were darker in hue than their mothers.
But there were exceptions to this. A dappled grey mare, for instance, instead of the more usual black-coated offspring, might be accompanied by a foal, light fawn as to ground tint, with black markings round its eyes and muzzle; or a dark mare be seen with a light-coloured youngster.
The yearlings, among whom Skewbald was one, had shed their winter coat by dint of rubbing against bushes below and overhanging branches above. The bay and chestnut showed clearly, and the lights began to appear on their coats, golden in the sun, blue in the shade, though they could scarcely be said to “ripple,” for the youngsters were still bony, with unfilled barrels.
Young Skewbald was not amongst the dullest hued of his fellows. There were few whose chestnut was brighter than his, while his white could not be matched anywhere among the ponies except for an occasional “sock” or forehead blaze too small in area to tell at a distance.
Like the others of his year, he walked sedately, for his hours of coltish play were over. Never again would he gambol on the lawns with a playmate in the golden evenings, though occasionally he would lie down and roll, a pleasure every horse and pony indulges in till the end of its days. Sufficient for the day was the labour of filling his belly, although the forest fare increased daily in bulk and sweetness.
X.—THE BRANDING OF SKEWBALD
Three ponies were grazing on a long level stretch of moorland one perfect evening in early September. To the north were low hills, their sides covered with purple heather and fern, the latter already showing orange amongst the green. Here and there an old thorn or holly dotted the hillside, the ridge itself serrated by groups of firs. Along the southern border of the moor flowed a tiny stream, a few feet across, which, a few miles farther down, would expand into a wide estuary dotted with yachts.
As the sun declined, the moor fell into shade, but on the hill the red trunks of the firs and the orange of the fern glowed with richer hues, while the heather added a ruddy tone to its purple. The foliage took on that rich golden-green which landscape painters love, while the shadows, deriving their colour from the blue of the eastern sky, were glaucous green.
Skewbald, still a yearling although some sixteen months old, was with his mother, who had also by her side her last foal, a brown filly. She was well grown, for she had been born early in April.
As they grazed, Tom and Molly, followed by their father, rode through the gate which led to the little farm beyond the river. “There they are,” said the boy—“mare, yearling, and colt.” (New Forest folk have a way of referring to a foal as a colt, even speaking of “horse colts” and “filly colts.”) “Yes, close at hand,” said his father; “push the gate wide open. I hope,” he continued, “as we haven’t all day to catch the yearling in, that you’ll just get quickly to work, and remember catching ponies is one thing, and running races with them quite another.” Tom grinned, but in his heart hoped the ponies would not let themselves be driven in without a run.
The father sent his boy along by the river, while he himself made a detour to get behind the ponies. Molly was to go up the moor to be in readiness in case of a break-away. The ponies were to be driven through the gate over the wooden bridge into the paddock, and, if it could be managed that evening, right into the stable yard. The boy and girl were to watch them, while the father drove them towards the gate. All went well at first. As the man emerged from the trees in view of the ponies, the mare stopped feeding, looked at the intruder, snorted, and trotted away with her offspring. The rider followed, gently shepherding them towards the gate, his assistants closing in on either side. Unfortunately, the youngest boy of the family, who, with a small sister, was fishing in the stream, had succeeded in bringing a minnow to land, and signalized his triumph with a yell of delight, just as the ponies came towards the opening. The mare pricked up her ears, swerved sharply, and, followed by her youngsters, made off at full speed across the moor in spite of all that the hunters could do. The man laughed ruefully, calling, “You’ll get your run, Tom; we must try and get them in before night.” Tom went like the wind, in shirt and trousers, and barebacked, on a little rough pony, which knew every foot of the ground. The fugitives got to a boggy place, and had to pick their way, so Tom, running wide, got behind a patch of firs, and came upon the ponies suddenly—too suddenly, for they went away up the moor, the mare shaking her mane and tail, Skewbald keeping pace easily, and the foal doing wonderfully well. They went right past the girl, though she tore off her hat, whirled it above her head, and let off blood-curdling shrieks. “After them, Molly,” called her father, and the thunder of hoofs resounded, while the setting sun gilded the heather, firs, and fern with a deeper glory than before, and enhanced Skewbald, as he emerged with the mare and foal on the hilltop, then disappeared behind clumps of hollies, or, a moment in shade, told dark on the skyline. The wide, open situation, the sense of space, as the retreating ponies diminished rapidly to mere dots, the sweet scent of bruised bog myrtle, and the clear light, made a scene less like rural England than the setting of some cowboy story of vast upland country in, say, Idaho or Arizona. Only the great sierra background was lacking.
Molly managed to drive the ponies off the moor, up the hill, along the ridge, and then turning them, drove them down the steep forest road across the moor towards the farm, Tom and her father on either side, waving and shouting to prevent a break-away. There was no trouble this time at the gate, for with man and boy to right and left, and the girl thundering behind, the ponies were glad to dash through. “Got ’em,” chuckled Tom as he closed the gate. The others followed at the ponies’ heels over the bridge. The gates leading to the yard were open, and all was quiet, for Mother had looked out to see how things were going, and had taken charge of her two small children. As it happened, the fugitives, instead of turning off into the meadow, as they might have done, went up the road, dashed through the opening, and found themselves in the stable yard. Molly closed the great sliding-door, while Tom and his father, jumping from their mounts, attended to Skewbald. As he was a lusty youngster, and with his shaking mane and depressed ears looked mischievous, they paid him the compliment of treating him like a full-grown stallion, and Tom was given the job of haltering him, for practice. The halter was hung on the end of a six-foot rod, and while his father drove the yearling into a corner, distracting his attention, Tom quietly slipped the loop over his head and fastened the rope to a ring in the wall, before Skewbald had time to show resentment at being tied up.
“Fetch the branding-iron, Tom,” said his father. Mother had it on the kitchen fire in readiness. Meanwhile the man got a sack from the shed, and watching his opportunity, dropped it over Skewbald’s head, who, while objecting to it very much, was so puzzled by the darkness, that he ceased his straining and backing, and was reduced to quietude. This bandaging the eyes is not often done, only when it is feared a pony may become obstreperous. Sometimes the yearlings are driven into a stable with no space to kick in, when the brander will reach over one pony to brand the next.
Tom brought out the iron, which was like a poker with a ring handle for hanging up, and the branding device or letters welded to the other end, and of course in reverse. Several such irons were hanging in the stable.
There need be no shuddering at visions of red-hot iron and sizzling flesh, for the iron when it reached the yard was black, and to all appearance cold. Yet it was hot—hot enough to destroy hair growth where it was pressed, and leave a permanent mark.
The man took the iron and held it for a moment an inch from his cheek to test its heat. “Just right,” he said; “hold him, Tom;” then firmly pressed the iron against the shoulder—the shoulder, not the saddle, for Skewbald was one day to go to the mines, where appearances do not count for much, hard pulling and quick turning being more highly rated. Skewbald did nothing out of the way when the iron bit into his skin, did not kick or try to rear; he just winced, and that was all.
Then the yearling was released and turned out into the paddock, where his mother and her foal were awaiting him. The agister would be along shortly, and Skewbald would be on hand for the tail-cutting. This is also a delicate operation, as a pony may launch an unexpected kick. Generally, a large pair of scissors in hand, the cutter quietly draws the lower tail hair towards him with the crook of a stick. In a stable into which a dozen ponies may have been driven, perhaps for the first time in their lives, the agister will venture fearlessly, and cut tail after tail without mishap, trusting to the good sense of the ponies, which will not kick in the confined space, for fear of hurting their fellow-prisoners.
Occasionally, half a dozen commoners will agree to meet on a Saturday afternoon, for the purpose of collecting their ponies. The harness of the ridden ponies varies in style, and is often more homely than elegant. A man may be riding a horse or pony whose accoutrements consist of mere scraps of leather held together by string and rope. The boys of the party ride barebacked, or make an old rug serve as saddle.
Some time may be spent in rounding up the ponies, which, after much hard riding and shouting, are driven into a convenient farmyard, in a bunch of twenty or thirty.
The quiet enclosure, tenanted only by a few pigs and poultry, becomes a place of tumult as the hunted ponies surge in, snorting, neighing, and tossing manes, the pursuers close on their heels to prevent a break-away. In a moment all is life and movement. The poultry and pigs dash hither and thither from beneath the trampling hoofs. The riders jump from their mounts, which with drooping heads stand passive as if glad to rest, strangely contrasting with the restless movements of the wild ponies, which, cowed and bewildered, crowd into a corner, penned up so closely that they have no room to kick, even if they have the inclination; foals wander about, seeking their dams; men and boys, leaning against their steeds, chat with the daughters of the farm, while dogs and children appear as if by magic, the tiniest tot seeming to bear a charmed life. The unwanted ponies are now sorted out, an operation somewhat troublesome and delicate, and given their liberty; the unbranded ones are tied up and marked with their respective owners’ branding-irons.
Then the company takes the farm road, leading the freshly caught ponies. Most of the captives, after a few skirmishes, submit to their fate, and go quietly, but some, more resentful of their treatment and unwelcome bondage, give much trouble, both to their captors and to themselves. They put down their fore-feet stubbornly, refusing to budge, and when prodded by those behind, may fling themselves down, to be dragged along the stony road. An obstinate pony will try sorely the patience of those in charge of it, and instances have occurred of an animal causing its own death by its violent resistance; but, generally, after half a mile of rough treatment, the pony realizes that further opposition is useless, and follows more or less submissively.