Black Beauty

more.
    My mother seemed much
troubled. She said she had known that horse for many years. His name was Big
Dick Rasputin. He was a good, bold horse, and there was no vice in him; he
occasionally screwed a brood mare, that was all. She never would go to that
part of the field afterwards.
    Not many days after, we
heard the church bell tolling for a long time. Looking over the gate, we saw a
long, strange black coach that was covered with black cloth and was drawn by
black horses; this was for the stiff. It was carrying young Gordon to the
churchyard, to bury him. That’s what happens when you die, you never ride
again. What they did with Big Dick Rasputin I never knew; he was sold as dog
food.
     
    Oh terrible ending as dog food in a tin
    It doesn’t encourage a racehorse to win
    Fancy the Derby winner
    Ending up as a dog’s dinner.

MY BREAKING IN
     
    Oh! terrible breaking in!
    It should be considered a sin
    I had to gallop, walk and trot
    I thought that was the lot
    I was taught to go fast or slow
    To stop, start and then go
    A man would sit on your back
    I’d take him there and bring him back
    The man was Squire Gordon by name
    I kicked him in the balls whenever he came
    They each swole up like a marrow
    He had to wheel them round on a barrow.
     
    I was now beginning to grow
handsome; some people grew up, but I grew handsome. My coat was coal black; at
night people used to walk into me. Mind you, I still looked like a horse. When
I was four years old, Squire Gordon came to look at me. He examined my eyes,
mouth and legs. He felt them all the way down, because that’s where they were.
Then I had to walk and trot and gallop before him. He seemed to like me and
said, ‘I seem to like you. When he is broken in he will do well.’ My master
said he would break me in himself, to save the expense of hiring a groom, the
mean bastard! The next day he began.
    Everyone may not know what
breaking in is. It means you have a bloody awful time. You have to wear a
saddle and carry on your back a man, woman, child, or a hundredweight sack of
potatoes; or, in times of war, you have to carry a cannon. You have to learn to
wear a collar. You have to be able to have a cart or a chaise fixed behind you,
so that you can hardly walk without dragging it after you. It’s hell I tell
you. Many horses have gotten a hernia trying to pull them. You must go fast or
slow, start or stop, as the driver wishes; you have no bloody choice at all.
You must not speak to other horses nor bite nor kick nor crap nor have any will
of your own. You might as well be bloody dead. You must do your master’s will
even though you may be very tired or hungry, but you can report him to the
RSPCA. When the harness is once on, you may neither jump for joy nor lie down
for weariness. It’s a complete loss of freedom.
    I had, of course, long been
used to a halter and a headstall — that’s a stall I sleep in with my head — and
was then led about in the field and lanes, even if I didn’t want to go. For
those who have never had a bit in their mouths (most men have had a bit on the
side), it is held fast by straps over your head, under your throat, round your
nose, and under your chin, everywhere except behind your arse; so that no way
in the world can you get rid of the nasty hard thing; it is very bad! Yes, very
bad! But with the nice oats, and what with my master’s pats, kind words, and
gentle ways, I got used to wearing my bit and bridle, but it was still bloody
terrible.
    Next came the saddle, but
that was not half so bad; they put it on my back, very gently, and my master
got on. I immediately bolted and threw him. It certainly felt queer, but I felt
rather proud to have thrown my master. However, he continued to ride me a
little every day, and I would throw him every day. I soon became accustomed to
it, and so did he.
    Next was putting on iron
shoes. The blacksmith took my feet in his hands, one after the other, and cut
away some of the hoof. I stood still on three legs, sometimes two, or even one,
till he had done them all. Then he clapped on a piece of iron the shape of my
foot and drove some nails through the shoe into my hoof, so that the shoe was
firmly on. My feet felt very stiff and heavy, but in time I got used to it.
    Next was to break me to
harness. First, a stiff heavy collar just on my neck. (The things they were
putting on me made me weigh twelve stone more than I really was.) It was a
bridle with great side-pieces against my eyes