mates, this is a warning for us. If we want to go on working, we must
avoid death.’
40
POOR GINGER
One day, I saw a horse in a state
I thought I better wait
It turned out to be Ginger, my friend
He was coming to a terrible end
He threw his legs around me and cried
‘Oh, I wish I’d died’
His tears flooded the floor
I was forced to say, ‘Stop crying, no more
We’re drowning by the score.’
One day, a shabby old cab
drove up beside ours. The horse was an old worn-out chestnut, with an ill-kept
coat; you could see the lining, and bones that showed plainly through it. The
knees knuckled over, and the forelegs were very unsteady. He was the worst case
of horseitis I had ever seen. I had been eating some hay, and the wind rolled a
little lock of it that way, and the poor creature put out his long thin neck
and picked it up. There was a hopeless look in the dull eye that I could not
help noticing, and then, as I was thinking, he looked full at me and said,
‘Black Beauty, is that you?’
It was Ginger! But how
changed! The beautifully arched and glossy neck was now straight and lank, and
fallen in; the clean straight legs and delicate fetlocks were swelled; the
joints were grown out of shape with hard work; the face, that was once so full
of spirit and life, was now full of suffering, and I could tell by the heaving
of his sides, and his frequent cough, how bad his breath was. It was the worst
case of horse halitosis I had ever known. It was a sad tale that he had to
tell.
After twelve months at
Earlshall, he was considered to be fit for work again. In this way he changed
hands several times, but always getting lower down.
I said, ‘You used to stand
up for yourself if you were ill-used, and kick them in the balls.’
‘Ah!’ he said, ‘I did once;
no, wait, I did it fifteen times. I wish the end would come, I wish I was dead.
I wish I may drop down dead at my work.’
I waited for him to drop
dead, but he didn’t. He said, ‘I don’t feel like dropping dead today.’
A short time after this, a
cart with a dead horse in it passed. The head hung out of the cart-tail, the
lifeless tongue was slowly dripping with blood; and the sunken eyes! He would
soon be a dinner in some French restaurant. It was a chestnut horse with a long
thin neck. Wait! I saw a white streak down the forehead. It was Ginger;
I hoped it was, for then his troubles would be over. Soon, he would be a tin of
cat food.
41
THE BUTCHER
The butcher was a prompt man
Delivering meat by horse or van
His delivery boy rode them very fast
The butcher said, ‘If you go on like this he won’t last’
The boy said, ‘I have to deliver on time
I have to, so the customer can dine
If only they’d order in advance
We wouldn’t lead this merry dance’
So he bought the boy a bike
‘I hope,’ said the butcher, ‘this is something he’ll
like.’
We horses do not mind hard
work if we are treated with a dinner at the Savoy, or taken to a music hall. I
am sure that many are driven by quite poor men who have had a happier life.
It often went to my heart
to see how the little ponies were used, straining along with heavy loads,
wearing a truss over their hernias. We saw one doing his best to pull a heavy
cart back to Africa with ten elephants.
Pulling ten elephants back to Africa
For a little ruptured horse is much too far
Try, try, try as they may
They’ll be lucky to get as far as Herne Bay
The ruptured horse to Africa will never get
The best he can hope is to be put down by a vet.
I used to notice the speed
at which the butcher’s boy was made to go — 90 miles per hour. One day, we had
to wait some time in St John’s Wood; we were actually waiting for St John.
There was a butcher’s shop next door and, as we were standing, a butcher’s cart
came dashing up at 100 miles per hour. The horse was hot, and much exhausted;
he hung his head down, his legs hung down, his body hung down. The lad
avoid death.’
40
POOR GINGER
One day, I saw a horse in a state
I thought I better wait
It turned out to be Ginger, my friend
He was coming to a terrible end
He threw his legs around me and cried
‘Oh, I wish I’d died’
His tears flooded the floor
I was forced to say, ‘Stop crying, no more
We’re drowning by the score.’
One day, a shabby old cab
drove up beside ours. The horse was an old worn-out chestnut, with an ill-kept
coat; you could see the lining, and bones that showed plainly through it. The
knees knuckled over, and the forelegs were very unsteady. He was the worst case
of horseitis I had ever seen. I had been eating some hay, and the wind rolled a
little lock of it that way, and the poor creature put out his long thin neck
and picked it up. There was a hopeless look in the dull eye that I could not
help noticing, and then, as I was thinking, he looked full at me and said,
‘Black Beauty, is that you?’
It was Ginger! But how
changed! The beautifully arched and glossy neck was now straight and lank, and
fallen in; the clean straight legs and delicate fetlocks were swelled; the
joints were grown out of shape with hard work; the face, that was once so full
of spirit and life, was now full of suffering, and I could tell by the heaving
of his sides, and his frequent cough, how bad his breath was. It was the worst
case of horse halitosis I had ever known. It was a sad tale that he had to
tell.
After twelve months at
Earlshall, he was considered to be fit for work again. In this way he changed
hands several times, but always getting lower down.
I said, ‘You used to stand
up for yourself if you were ill-used, and kick them in the balls.’
‘Ah!’ he said, ‘I did once;
no, wait, I did it fifteen times. I wish the end would come, I wish I was dead.
I wish I may drop down dead at my work.’
I waited for him to drop
dead, but he didn’t. He said, ‘I don’t feel like dropping dead today.’
A short time after this, a
cart with a dead horse in it passed. The head hung out of the cart-tail, the
lifeless tongue was slowly dripping with blood; and the sunken eyes! He would
soon be a dinner in some French restaurant. It was a chestnut horse with a long
thin neck. Wait! I saw a white streak down the forehead. It was Ginger;
I hoped it was, for then his troubles would be over. Soon, he would be a tin of
cat food.
41
THE BUTCHER
The butcher was a prompt man
Delivering meat by horse or van
His delivery boy rode them very fast
The butcher said, ‘If you go on like this he won’t last’
The boy said, ‘I have to deliver on time
I have to, so the customer can dine
If only they’d order in advance
We wouldn’t lead this merry dance’
So he bought the boy a bike
‘I hope,’ said the butcher, ‘this is something he’ll
like.’
We horses do not mind hard
work if we are treated with a dinner at the Savoy, or taken to a music hall. I
am sure that many are driven by quite poor men who have had a happier life.
It often went to my heart
to see how the little ponies were used, straining along with heavy loads,
wearing a truss over their hernias. We saw one doing his best to pull a heavy
cart back to Africa with ten elephants.
Pulling ten elephants back to Africa
For a little ruptured horse is much too far
Try, try, try as they may
They’ll be lucky to get as far as Herne Bay
The ruptured horse to Africa will never get
The best he can hope is to be put down by a vet.
I used to notice the speed
at which the butcher’s boy was made to go — 90 miles per hour. One day, we had
to wait some time in St John’s Wood; we were actually waiting for St John.
There was a butcher’s shop next door and, as we were standing, a butcher’s cart
came dashing up at 100 miles per hour. The horse was hot, and much exhausted;
he hung his head down, his legs hung down, his body hung down. The lad
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