Black Beauty

good-bye
    The queue reached as far as Rye
    It even reached Bexhill
    Where everybody’s always ill
    Queen Victoria was in the queue
    Her driver was an old Jew
    Hadn’t any money
    But was very, very funny
    Merry was given to the Vicar, that was his lot
    On the understanding, when he was no longer useful
    He was to be shot.
     
    We heard from time to time
that our mistress was ill. The doctor was often at the house, and making a
fortune. The master looked grave and anxious because he was paying. Then we
heard that she must leave her home at once, and go to a warm country for two or
three years, and preferably die out there. The news fell on the household like
the tolling of a death-bell. Some fell on the cook, striking her on the
swannicles and some fell on the footman, rendering him unconscious for life.
    The first of the party who
went were Miss Jessie and Miss Flora. They came to bid us good-bye. They hugged
poor Merrylegs like an old friend. Then we heard what had been arranged for us.
Master had sold Ginger and me to his old friend, the Earl of Womble, for he
thought we should have a good place there. Merrylegs was given to the Vicar —
who baptised him into the Church of England faith — but it was on the condition
that he should never be sold, and that when he was past work, he should be shot
and buried. There was gratitude for you!
    Joe was engaged to take
care of him and to help in the house, so I thought that Merrylegs would do the
washing up and the ironing.
    The master was departing.
‘Good-bye again,’ he said, ‘we shall not forget any of you,’ and he got in to
the carriage saying, ‘Drive on, John.’ Immediately he forgot them all.
    The mistress walked from
the carriage to the waiting room at the railway station. I heard her say in her
own sweet voice, ‘That clumsy, bloody husband.’ Pretty soon the train came
puffing up to the station, and guards were busy throwing passengers off. The
doors were slammed, the guard whistled, and the train glided away.
    When it was out of sight,
John said, ‘We shall never see her again — never. Nobody who goes to Calcutta
ever comes back.’ Slowly, he drove home. It wasn’t our home now; it belonged to
the Bradford & Bingley.

22

EARLSHALL
     
    Oh, dear, Ginger and I are going to a new master
    We fear it might be a disaster
    Would he be kind or cruel?
    Or would he be a bloody old fool?
    He was twenty stone, alas and alack
    When he sat on a horse you could hear its spine crack
    He knew John Brown, the Queen’s ghillie
    Who wore a kilt to hide a huge willy
    He had once seen the Queen
    She didn’t see him but she saw where he had been.
     
    The next morning, after
breakfast, Joe put Merrylegs into the mistress’s low chaise to take him to the
vicarage; how he enjoyed sitting in the chaise. He came first (I forget who
came second), and said good-bye to us, and Merrylegs neighed to us from the
yard, and a lot of bloody good it did. Then John put the saddle on Ginger and
the leading rein on me, and rode us across to Earlshall Park, where the Earl of
Womble lived.
    There was a very fine house
with a very fine ‘For Sale’ sign on it. It had a great deal of stabling, all
with a ‘To Let’ sign on them. We entered the yard through a stone gateway, and
John asked for Mr York. It was some time before he came — a year. He was a
fine-looking, middle-aged man with the arse out of his trousers, and his voice
said at once that he expected to be obeyed. ‘Attention! Stand at ease!’ he
said. He was very friendly and polite to John. After giving us a slight look,
he called a groom to take us to our boxes, and invited John to take some
refreshment — a sausage and a glass of water.
    We were taken to a light
airy stable (mainly because it had no roof on it), and placed in boxes
adjoining each other, where we were rubbed down and fed. In about half-an-hour,
John and Mr York, who was to be our new coachman, came in to see us.
    ‘Now, Mr Manly,’ he said,
‘Stand at ease! Attention! Slope arms! I can see no fault in these horses, but
we all know that horses have their peculiarities as well as men, and that
sometimes they need different treatment; I should like to know if there is
anything particular in either of these that you would like to mention.’
    ‘Well,’ said John, ‘I do
not believe there is a better pair of horses in the country. They occasionally
like a banana frappe with a glass of brandy. But the chestnut, I fancy, must
have had bad