Chapter-1
In the first place, I recount my encounter with a large meadow—a lovely place and the most pleasing ambience with a pond where clear water glistened with the golden refracting rays of the sun. I drenched my dry throat with the most refreshing, cold and sweet water of the pond and enjoyed myself the shade of trees protecting myself from hot and sunny surroundings. These were an important part of my daily routine. Another feature of the meadow I rejoiced was the gurgling brook with the steep bank.
When I was young, I had to depend on my mother’s milk as I was unfit to feed on grass.
Most of the time, I jumped and played with my mother around and also in the company of the other six colts.
We slept outdoors marring the heat in summers and springs and preferred to stay close to my mother. All through winter, we had to sleep in our shed near farmer Grey’s house to prevent cold.
Farmer Grey was our master who was kind to us. He called my mother, Duchess, and I was christened Darkie for my black coat.
When I was fit enough to feed on grass, my mother did her jobs like going to the farm, pulling the little gig with the farmer and his wife to the market. But she was left with me in the evening.
Once I was playing some rough games with my friends. My mother saw me and called me up. She asked me to avoid such boisterous games. She said, “Beauty, your friends are from a good family. Have you not yet learnt good manners? You need to keep up the grace of your family; your father had been a winner at New Market race for two years and your grandmother was known for her calm and sweet nature.” She wanted me to be gentle and good like grandma. I understood her.
I should do my work well and lift my feet properly while trotting. I should never bite or kick. I was taught all this by my mother.
I was faithful to her lessons. Driven by this spirit, I promised to remember her words as long as I lived. But it was difficult to follow these rules when the plough boy Dick entered the meadow to pick blackberries. When he was tired, he would throw stones at me and other colts. Although we galloped around to save ourselves yet he hit us with the most painful strokes.
One day Farmer Grey saw him hit us. He handed some money over to him and asked him to leave the job. Then he left us.
I was still running in the meadow with my friends. We heard some dogs barking.
“Probably they have scented some hare,” suggested one of my friends.
Just then, a scared hare leapt across the stream and across the field. A pack of ferocious hounds with eight horsemen behind them followed it. The hounds were all tearing down the field of young wheat next to ours. I never heard such a noise as they made. They did not bark, nor houl, nor whine, but kept on a ‘Yo! yo, o, o! Yo! yo, o, o!’ at the top of their voices. My excitement was at its peak just as they went across the field leaving behind clouds of dust. My instinct urged me to follow them. As I headed, my path was hindered by the wounded horse that slipped and rolled down the hilly space between the meadow and the green belt beyond.
In no moment, the field echoed with the painful cry of the youth rider lying on one edge. He was seemingly motionless. The horse lay on the other edge struggling to stand up on its own. Sadly, its attempts to get up failed. By the time the crew gathered, the rider was dead with the wounded horse lying aside.
I came to know that the deceased rider was called ‘Gordon’, the son of the Squire. One of my friends said that probably he had a fatal neck injury. My mother had great acquaintance with the wounded horse.
She recognized him as Rob Roy. He was her old friend. She saw the poor creature and remarked that he had broken his leg.
People were riding off in all directions—to the doctor’s, the farrier’s and no doubt to squire Gordon’s, to let him know about the death of his son. When Mr Bond, the farrier, came to look at the horse that lay groaning on the grass, he felt him all over and shook his head.
The confusion was still in the air when we saw one person amongst the crew preparing his gun. Finally, he aimed at Rob Roy. Within a second or two the poor animal was shot dead.
Just after two or three days, the church bells were heard. A number of carriages covered with black cloth, supported with black horses, were viewed. They were making their way for the churchyard.
The coffin lay on the front carriage. Two young and innocent lives were there inside it, both at the cost of a little hare, who too was innocent. This accident disturbed my mother the most. She stopped trotting on that part of the field where the brutality was done, so did I. I had to console her, for she deeply regretted the death of her friend and the cruelty of humans against our breed.
