Pit Pony by Joyce Barkhouse Page A

around the table in the warm kitchen. His frowning, dark-mustached father sat at one end. The lamplight shone on the bright red heads of Nellie and his big brother John and made pale ovals of the faces of the dark-eyed little ones, Maggie and Sara. It reflected on the spectacles of his tiny old grandmother in her frilled white cap, as she peered over at him from her rocking chair. In the middle of the table sat the steaming ceann groppaig, a huge codfish head stuffed with a pudding made of rolled oats and flour and mashed cod livers.
    All this, Willie saw in the flash of a second — and he was puzzled. What had happened? Usually the children ate first, because there weren’t enough chairs to go around. When there was a ceilidh ,* or when the minister came to call, then Nellie would borrow extra chairs from one of the neighbours. But tonight there was no guest.
    *kay` lee
    He opened the door a crack wider.
    His father glared at him from under his bushy, black eyebrows. “Come in,” he ordered. “Shut the door. You’re letting in a cold draft.”
    Willie went in, hanging his head, shamefaced, and shut the door. Then the whole family shouted together, “Happy Birthday!”
    He had forgotten. It was October 12, 1902, and he was eleven years old.
    â€œWash your hands and come to the table for blessing,” said his father.
    Willie went to the dry sink and poured cold water from a bucket into the tin basin.
    â€œHow could you forget your own birthday?” scolded seven-year-old Sara, the youngest of the family, bouncing up and down in her chair.
    â€œHush! Bow your head for blessing,” said Rory Maclean.
    As soon as Willie sat down, his father prayed, “God bless this house and this family. Teach them Thy ways, O Lord. May William learn, from this day on, to assume his full share of family responsibilities. Amen.”
    He raised his head. The corners of his mustache lifted and he smiled at them all, including Willie. As if a black cloud had floated away and the sun had come out, they all smiled back. Rory Maclean picked up a knife and fork and prepared to serve the ceann groppaig. Willie felt a warm and happy glow inside.
    â€œBut where were you, Willie? Why were you so late?” Sara persisted.
    â€œMmm!” Willie savoured his first mouthful. “I was down by the waterfront to see the wild horses come in from Sable Island. Me and some other boys wanted to see them unloading.”
    â€œAnd did you?” asked his big, red-headed brother, John, as he reached for a thick slice of homemade bread.
    â€œWe did,” said Willie. “And a sad sight it was, too. All them little wild, shaggy horses, scared to death. Some of them was cut and bleeding.”
    â€œWhy?” asked Sara.
    â€œBecause when they’re aboard a schooner, they’re tied by the legs and head so’s they won’t fall down or rear up in a storm,” explained Willie, between mouthfuls. Then he added, “It’s a terrible thing to capture wild horses and make them go down the pits.”
    â€œMaybe it won’t do,” said his father. “Wild horses are apt to be fractious. But the Company can’t find enough trained ponies to work the narrow seams.”
    Sara tossed her blond pigtails. “Why....” she began, but her father interrupted impatiently.
    â€œBe quiet, child, and eat up.” He looked over at Willie and frowned. “Willie needs to get home every night for his supper. If he don’t, he’ll stay little and stunted like a Sable Island pony. He’s got to grow up big and strong to be a good miner.”
    Willie was silent. He didn’t want to grow up to be a miner. He wasn’t like John who had never thought of being anything else. It had been a proud day for John when he had left school at fourteen and gone off to work with his father. He was considered a man now, with all a man’s rights. No more thrashings for a boy