article in the Encyclopaedia Britannica on Horsemanship and Riding.
They crossed the yard, passed the garage, and entered the road that would take them to the corral and the west pasture. “I’ve an idea,” Mrs. Peel announced. “I’ll let Jackson exercise Golden Boy meanwhile. That will cheer him up: he really is so gloomy these days. What can be wrong?”
“Ask him,” Sally suggested. Then she stopped short. “Good heavens! What’s this?”
This was a young girl with gleaming gold hair, narrow hips snug in tight pearl-grey trousers, green satin sleeves swinging loose from her white buckskin waistcoat, who stood near the entrance to the saddle-barn. Beside her was a black horse with an elaborate leather saddle. An enormous dog of undistinguishable breed lay at her feet, but its long coat had been as carefully brushed as the horse had been curried and polished.
The cowboys had gathered round, of course. Jackson was there too, sitting on the five-barred fence as if he had always been accustomed to perch eight feet from the ground. Ned looked as if he had found something other than calves to rope. Jim Brent was there, his horse saddled and bridled for an evening ride, but now it was tethered to the hitching-rail and quite forgotten. Mrs. Gunn and her pretty niece Norah (who had arrived from Three Springs only that morning) had come up for an evening stroll to see Ned’s calf-roping. They were trying to stand somewhat aside, and yet they too were caught into the group, fascinated by what they saw. The girl’s long gold hair, braided into two plaits reaching just below her shoulders, was tied with bright green ribbon bows. Her hat of fine white straw, broad-brimmed, with its edges curving like peregrine wings, sat as demurely as the Empress Eugénie’s over the centre of her brow. Her feet were small in the narrow pointed boots of fine green leather.
For a moment Mrs. Peel, remembering the carrots (which she knew were not the correct Western approach to a horse), hesitated. Then, holding them openly in her hand, she walked bravely on with Sally. Mrs. Gunn came to meet them.
“It’s the girl from Phoenix,” she explained quickly, in a hushed voice. She shot a glance at Ned, and shook her head. “She’s just arrived.” This time she shot a glance at the bright green car and the gleaming aluminium horse-trailer which had been parked at one side of the saddle-barn. “If she can clean as well as she can ride she’ll be good.”
“You mean she’s the nice girl from Phoenix Ned told us about? Our new upstairs maid?” Sally asked, keeping her voice equally hushed. Mrs. Peel was still fitting Mrs. Gunn’s glances into a pattern.
“That’s her.” Mrs. Gunn looked at Ned again. “I kind of think we’re lucky that Robb’s nice girl from Butte went and got married last week.”
By this time the three women had approached the group round the corral. Ned stopped his conversation to turn to them with a proud smile. “Mrs. Peel, Miss Bly, I want you to meet Miss Drene Travers.”
Miss Drene Travers put out a neat little hand and gave a fine grip. She had very large dark blue eyes, with black eyelashes and skilfully marked brows. Her skin, incredibly untanned, had the same smooth finish that the slender, straight-haired girls, forever hurrying along Lexington Avenue, in New York, with mysterious patent-leather hatboxes, always displayed as they turned a photogenic chin-line to their passing public. She smiled slowly, showing even white teeth between the deep red lips. “Hello, how are you?” That was all. But Sally had to admit it was devastating.
Mrs. Peel, unaccustomed as she was to public welcoming, had the feeling that a few phrases would not be out of place. The silent men around her, who had been such good hosts themselves, obviously expected her to rise to the occasion. They were presenting the newcomer to her as Ned’s friend, a stranger to be made at home, an interesting piece of decoration
They crossed the yard, passed the garage, and entered the road that would take them to the corral and the west pasture. “I’ve an idea,” Mrs. Peel announced. “I’ll let Jackson exercise Golden Boy meanwhile. That will cheer him up: he really is so gloomy these days. What can be wrong?”
“Ask him,” Sally suggested. Then she stopped short. “Good heavens! What’s this?”
This was a young girl with gleaming gold hair, narrow hips snug in tight pearl-grey trousers, green satin sleeves swinging loose from her white buckskin waistcoat, who stood near the entrance to the saddle-barn. Beside her was a black horse with an elaborate leather saddle. An enormous dog of undistinguishable breed lay at her feet, but its long coat had been as carefully brushed as the horse had been curried and polished.
The cowboys had gathered round, of course. Jackson was there too, sitting on the five-barred fence as if he had always been accustomed to perch eight feet from the ground. Ned looked as if he had found something other than calves to rope. Jim Brent was there, his horse saddled and bridled for an evening ride, but now it was tethered to the hitching-rail and quite forgotten. Mrs. Gunn and her pretty niece Norah (who had arrived from Three Springs only that morning) had come up for an evening stroll to see Ned’s calf-roping. They were trying to stand somewhat aside, and yet they too were caught into the group, fascinated by what they saw. The girl’s long gold hair, braided into two plaits reaching just below her shoulders, was tied with bright green ribbon bows. Her hat of fine white straw, broad-brimmed, with its edges curving like peregrine wings, sat as demurely as the Empress Eugénie’s over the centre of her brow. Her feet were small in the narrow pointed boots of fine green leather.
For a moment Mrs. Peel, remembering the carrots (which she knew were not the correct Western approach to a horse), hesitated. Then, holding them openly in her hand, she walked bravely on with Sally. Mrs. Gunn came to meet them.
“It’s the girl from Phoenix,” she explained quickly, in a hushed voice. She shot a glance at Ned, and shook her head. “She’s just arrived.” This time she shot a glance at the bright green car and the gleaming aluminium horse-trailer which had been parked at one side of the saddle-barn. “If she can clean as well as she can ride she’ll be good.”
“You mean she’s the nice girl from Phoenix Ned told us about? Our new upstairs maid?” Sally asked, keeping her voice equally hushed. Mrs. Peel was still fitting Mrs. Gunn’s glances into a pattern.
“That’s her.” Mrs. Gunn looked at Ned again. “I kind of think we’re lucky that Robb’s nice girl from Butte went and got married last week.”
By this time the three women had approached the group round the corral. Ned stopped his conversation to turn to them with a proud smile. “Mrs. Peel, Miss Bly, I want you to meet Miss Drene Travers.”
Miss Drene Travers put out a neat little hand and gave a fine grip. She had very large dark blue eyes, with black eyelashes and skilfully marked brows. Her skin, incredibly untanned, had the same smooth finish that the slender, straight-haired girls, forever hurrying along Lexington Avenue, in New York, with mysterious patent-leather hatboxes, always displayed as they turned a photogenic chin-line to their passing public. She smiled slowly, showing even white teeth between the deep red lips. “Hello, how are you?” That was all. But Sally had to admit it was devastating.
Mrs. Peel, unaccustomed as she was to public welcoming, had the feeling that a few phrases would not be out of place. The silent men around her, who had been such good hosts themselves, obviously expected her to rise to the occasion. They were presenting the newcomer to her as Ned’s friend, a stranger to be made at home, an interesting piece of decoration
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