Black Beauty

mist still hung over the
plantation and meadows and hung over the house. We were feeding in the part of
the field where the mist hung overhead. In the distance we heard what sounded
like a cry of dogs. The oldest colt raised his head. He said, ‘There are the
hounds!’ With the mist hanging over them we could only see their legs. We
cantered off to the upper part of the field, where we could look over the hedge
and see the other side. My mother and a very old riding horse in a wheel chair
were standing near.
    ‘They have found a hare,’
said my mother, ‘and if they come this way, we shall see the hunt.’
    And soon we could only see
the legs of the dogs in the mist. They were tearing down the field of young
wheat next to ours. They did not bark nor howl nor whine, but kept on a ‘yo!
yo, o, o! yo! yo, o, o!’ at the tops of their voices. Dogs who say ‘yo! yo, o,
o! yo! yo, o, o!’ are very hard to find. Then came a number of men in green
coats on horseback, all galloping as fast as they could. Some were doing 100
miles per hour and soon they were away into the fields lower down; then they
seemed to lose the scent and the dogs left off yo-yoing and ran about in every
direction, mostly away.
    ‘They have lost the scent,’
said the old horse, ‘perhaps the hare will get off.’
    ‘What hare?’ I said.
    ‘How do I know what bloody
hare? Likely enough it may be one of our own hares; any hare will do for the
dogs and men.’
    And before long the dogs
began their ‘yo! yo, o, o!’ again, and back they came, all together at full
speed, making straight for the wrong way, to the part where the high bank and
hedge overhung the brook.
    ‘Now we shall see the
hare,’ said my mother, and just then, a hare, wild with fright, rushed by. Six
or eight men leaped their horses clean over the hedge, close to the dogs. The
hare tried to get through the hedge; it was too thick, and she turned sharp
round to make for the road, but it was too late; the dogs were upon her with
their wild cries: we heard one shriek and that was the end of her. ‘Heel!’ said
die master of hounds, and blew his horn. The hounds did not heel, seemed not to
hear, and went on tearing the hare to pieces. ‘Heel!’ he shouted again, but
they did not hear. He whipped-off the dogs, who turned on him and tore him to
pieces. These were called ‘sportsmen’ and they were all upper class; the Prince
of Wales was one of them.
    Then there was a sad sight
— two fine horses were down. One was struggling in the stream, and the other
was groaning on the grass. One of the riders was getting out of the water
covered with frog spawn and mud, the other lay quite still.
    ‘His neck is broken,’ said
my mother.
    ‘And serve him right too,’
said one of the colts.
    I thought the same, but my
mother did not join with us.
    ‘Well! No,’ she said, ‘you
must not say that. Although, I never could make out why men are so fond of this
sport; they often hurt themselves, they get covered in mud, they fall off and
break their necks, often spoil good horses and tear up the fields, and all for
a hare or a fox or a stag or an elephant, when they could get one more easily,
pre-prepared and oven ready, from the butcher’s.’
    Whilst my mother was saying
this, we stood and looked on. Many of the riders had gone to the young man, but
my master, who had been watching, was the first to raise him. His head fell
back and his arms hung down, his legs shot up and everyone looked very serious,
especially the one with his head hanging down. There was no noise now; even the
dogs were quiet, and seemed to know that something was wrong. They carried him
to our master’s house. It was young George Gordon, the Squire’s only son, a
fine, tall young man, a cruel bastard, and the pride of his family, with his
head hanging down.
    They were now riding off in
all directions, in fact two riders rode off in the opposite directions, to the
doctor’s, to the farrier’s, to the butcher’s, to the baker’s, and no doubt to
Squire Gordon’s to let him know his son had snuffed it. When Mr Bond, the
farrier, came to look at the black horse that lay groaning on the grass, he
felt him all over, and shook his head; one of his legs was broken. Then someone
ran to our master’s house and came back with a gun. Presently, there was a loud
bang and a dreadful shriek; Mr Bond had shot himself. And then a humanitarian
put the horse down, and then all was still; the black horse moved no