Black Beauty

of my life
as a cab horse was very trying; I tried to be a cab horse. Even when we were
standing still on the spot.
    In a short time, I and my
master understood each other as well as a horse and man could do. Sometimes, he
would let me wear one of his shirts. Even in the stable he did everything he
could for our comfort. He put in an armchair and a bar. He took off our halters
and put the bars up the windows, and thus we could turn about or stand,
whichever way we pleased. I used to go clockwise. He always gave us plenty of
clean water, which he allowed to stand beside us both night and day. Yes, we
slept with water standing beside us — big deal!

34

AN OLD WAR HORSE
     
    Captain was in the charge of the light brigade
    Cannons to the right of them
    Cannons to the left of them
    Cannons underneath them
    Cannons over the top of them
    While horse and hero fell
    What was that terrible smell
    Bravely they rode well
    But what was that terrible smell
    They charged the Russian guns
    Which gave some of them the runs
    Some of the Russians went spare
    Looking for clean underwear
    They charged into the mouth of hell
    They flashed the sabres bare
    Nobody at home seemed to care
    Thru shot and shell
    But what was that terrible smell
    It was the gallant six hundred.
     
    Captain had been broken in
and trained for an army horse, but he started as a private. He told me he
thought the life of an army horse was very pleasant, but when he came to be
sent abroad:
    ‘That part of it,’ he said,
‘was dreadful! Of course we could not walk into the ship. We were lifted off
our legs and swung to the deck of the great vessel. Then we were placed in
small close stalls, and never for a long time saw the sky, or were able to
stretch our legs. Somehow I managed to stretch mine an extra three inches. The
ship sometimes rolled about in high winds, and we were knocked about. Many
horses were sick and felt bad. I felt myself, and I felt bad.
    ‘We soon found that the
country we had come to was very different from our own. The men were so fond of
their horses, they did everything they could to make them comfortable, in spite
of snow. They all let us sleep in their beds with them.’
    ‘But what about the
fighting?’ I asked, ‘Was that not worse than anything else?’
    ‘Well,’ said he, ‘I hardly
know. We always liked to hear the trumpets sounding. We were impatient to start
off, for sometimes we had to stand for hours, so we would sit down. And when
the word was given; we used to spring forward as gaily and eagerly as if there
were no cannon balls, bayonets, or bullets. I believe that so long as we felt
our rider firm in the saddle, and his hand steady on the bridle, not one of us
gave way to fear.
    ‘I, with my noble master,
went through many actions without a wound, though I saw horses shot down with
bullets, pierced through with lances, and gashed with fearful sabre-cuts — and
pay cuts; though we left them, dead men in the field, or dying in agony of
their wounds, some lingered on long enough to draw their pay. My master’s
cheery voice encouraged his men: “Go on! Kill! Kill! Kill!” I saw many brave
men cut down, many fall mortally wounded from their saddles. I heard the cries
and groans of the dying. “Ohh, help, arghh, ouch, yaroo!” I had cantered over
ground slippery with blood, mud and custard, and frequently had to turn aside
to avoid trampling on wounded man or horse or custard.
    ‘But one dreadful day, we
heard the firing of the Russian guns. “Bangski! Bangski! Bangski! Bangski!” One
of the officers rode up and gave the word for the men to mount, and in a second
every man was in a saddle. Some were so quick, they had squashed knackers.
    ‘My master said, “We shall
have a day of it, Bayard, my beauty.” I cannot tell you all that happened that
day, but I will tell of the last charge we made in front of the enemy’s cannon.
“Bangski! Bangski! Bangski! Bangski!” went the Russian guns. Many a brave man
went down; some went up; some went sideways. Many a horse without a rider ran
wildly through the ranks, and many a rider without a horse ran wildly through
the ranks. Our pace and gallop became faster and faster, and as we neared the
cannon, we were doing 150 miles per hour.
    ‘My dear master was
cheering on his comrades with his right arm raised on high when a cannon ball
blew his head off. I tried to check my speed. The sword dropped from his hand;
he did a backward somersault and fell to earth. I was