along, I felt rather proud of how we looked, and then, of course, I had to hope that pride wouldn’t goeth before the fall in this case.
As if she were reading my mind, Jane said, “Now, Abby, you are a lovely rider. I don’t know where the natural talent ends and the years of experience begin. But the sort of lovely rider you are is very modest, if you know what I mean: you do your job and stay out of everyone’s way. That’s fine in your over-fences classes—you want the horse to seem as though he is taking care of everything in a hunter class. But in your hack class, where you’re all together and going around the ring not jumping, you want to make sure that every time the judge looks at a horse, your horse is the one he sees. I wouldn’t say this if you had a poorly trained horse, but you have a well-trained horse, nice-looking, with good conformation and movement. He is not flashy, though, and he doesn’t have any white markings to draw the judge’s eye. Therefore, my dear, put yourself out there where the judge can’t miss you, okay?”
“Okay.”
But first there was the jumping class. The course was once again fairly simple, a figure eight followed by a long loop across the center of an in-and-out followed by a chicken coop, and then a turn to the brush, around the first jump and across the center, over a jump set perpendicular to the others. I walked the course with my feet and then with my fingers, and then I jumped in the warm-up and did everything Jane told me, and then I was in the ring, and Black George was trotting, circling, cantering, and the next thing I knew, we were turning left down the long loop, right over the brush, then around the first jump and across the center, over some natural poles. I sat up, came to the trot, and left the arena with a smile.
It wasn’t until I was back out in the warm-up arena that I felt my left leg throbbing inside the boot. I took my foot out of the stirrup and twisted it around and around, first to the outside, then to the inside. Jane came over. She was very pleased. She said, “That should be a winning ride. We’ll see. Depends on how big a hangover the judge has this morning and whether he’s seeing double or not.” She grinned, then became very serious. She wasn’t exactly the same person I had thought she was.
She watched the other rounds—there were eight after me. Three horses had refusals, which was very bad for a hunter, and one of those plus one other knocked rails down, which, according to Jane, wasn’t good but wasn’t terribly bad if the horse’s form was good. Sophia Rosebury’s gray mare had a good round. The lady who had fallen off the day before did not fall off this time, but her horse bucked twice, also not good for a hunter. A hunter was supposed to buzz around like a robot, so that you, the rider, could keep your mind on the fox or blow your hornfor the hounds or something like that. I said, “Jane, have you ever gone foxhunting?”
“Oh, I grew up doing that, in Pennsylvania. Radnor Hunt. Twice a week when I could skip school. But then I moved out here.”
“Can you hunt here?”
“If you want to hunt coyotes. But it’s not the same when you’ve done the other. My favorite place to hunt is France. They hunt stags in the forests. I love Picardy. You go out into the forest all day, and then you eat ham and cheese omelets and drink brandy by the fire at night.” She smiled. “I only did it once, but I can’t wait to do it again. No jumping, but it’s fun.”
The last horse, a small bay, completed his round. I thought he had seven good jumps, but one was bad—he paused in front of the brush and leapt from almost a standstill. When they called us in for the ribbons, Sophia’s mare was first and Black George was second. Jane said, “She was third in the class yesterday, did I tell you that? So you’re ahead, but just. This hack class will tell the tale.” She turned and put her hand on my stirrup and stared up at
As if she were reading my mind, Jane said, “Now, Abby, you are a lovely rider. I don’t know where the natural talent ends and the years of experience begin. But the sort of lovely rider you are is very modest, if you know what I mean: you do your job and stay out of everyone’s way. That’s fine in your over-fences classes—you want the horse to seem as though he is taking care of everything in a hunter class. But in your hack class, where you’re all together and going around the ring not jumping, you want to make sure that every time the judge looks at a horse, your horse is the one he sees. I wouldn’t say this if you had a poorly trained horse, but you have a well-trained horse, nice-looking, with good conformation and movement. He is not flashy, though, and he doesn’t have any white markings to draw the judge’s eye. Therefore, my dear, put yourself out there where the judge can’t miss you, okay?”
“Okay.”
But first there was the jumping class. The course was once again fairly simple, a figure eight followed by a long loop across the center of an in-and-out followed by a chicken coop, and then a turn to the brush, around the first jump and across the center, over a jump set perpendicular to the others. I walked the course with my feet and then with my fingers, and then I jumped in the warm-up and did everything Jane told me, and then I was in the ring, and Black George was trotting, circling, cantering, and the next thing I knew, we were turning left down the long loop, right over the brush, then around the first jump and across the center, over some natural poles. I sat up, came to the trot, and left the arena with a smile.
It wasn’t until I was back out in the warm-up arena that I felt my left leg throbbing inside the boot. I took my foot out of the stirrup and twisted it around and around, first to the outside, then to the inside. Jane came over. She was very pleased. She said, “That should be a winning ride. We’ll see. Depends on how big a hangover the judge has this morning and whether he’s seeing double or not.” She grinned, then became very serious. She wasn’t exactly the same person I had thought she was.
She watched the other rounds—there were eight after me. Three horses had refusals, which was very bad for a hunter, and one of those plus one other knocked rails down, which, according to Jane, wasn’t good but wasn’t terribly bad if the horse’s form was good. Sophia Rosebury’s gray mare had a good round. The lady who had fallen off the day before did not fall off this time, but her horse bucked twice, also not good for a hunter. A hunter was supposed to buzz around like a robot, so that you, the rider, could keep your mind on the fox or blow your hornfor the hounds or something like that. I said, “Jane, have you ever gone foxhunting?”
“Oh, I grew up doing that, in Pennsylvania. Radnor Hunt. Twice a week when I could skip school. But then I moved out here.”
“Can you hunt here?”
“If you want to hunt coyotes. But it’s not the same when you’ve done the other. My favorite place to hunt is France. They hunt stags in the forests. I love Picardy. You go out into the forest all day, and then you eat ham and cheese omelets and drink brandy by the fire at night.” She smiled. “I only did it once, but I can’t wait to do it again. No jumping, but it’s fun.”
The last horse, a small bay, completed his round. I thought he had seven good jumps, but one was bad—he paused in front of the brush and leapt from almost a standstill. When they called us in for the ribbons, Sophia’s mare was first and Black George was second. Jane said, “She was third in the class yesterday, did I tell you that? So you’re ahead, but just. This hack class will tell the tale.” She turned and put her hand on my stirrup and stared up at
Similar Books
