Black Beauty

Chablis.’
    ‘Yes, sir, he’s wonderfully
improved, he’s not the same creature that he was; he’s somebody else. It’s the
Birtwick balls, sir,’ said John, laughing.
    Until then, I never knew we
had Birtwick balls.
    This was a little joke of
John’s; he used to say that a regular course of the Birtwick horse balls would
cure him and any vicious horse. Where did they get a supply of Birtwick balls?
The thought of grooms going round horse boxes with a pair of garden shears
removing the testicles for future use is terrible. These balls, he said, were
made up of patience and gentleness, firmness and petting. 2

MERRYLEGS
     
    The children with Merrylegs used to play
    Whether he liked it, he did not say
    But he often said back in the stable
    ‘I’d strangle them if I was able’
    When he couldn’t stand any more
    Fie trampled them all over the floor
    The father said, ‘You’ll pay for this, you’ll see’
    Said Merrylegs, ‘No, I did it all for free. ’
     
    Mr Blomefield, the Vicar,
had a large family of boys and girls; he used to fuck like a rabbit. When the
children came, there was plenty of work for Merrylegs, and nothing pleased them
so much as getting on him by turns and riding him all about the orchard and the
home paddock, and this they would do hour after hour.
    One afternoon, he had been
out with them a long time, and James brought him in.
    ‘What have you been doing,
Merrylegs?’ I asked.
    ‘Oh!’ said he, tossing his
little head, ‘I have only been giving those young people a lesson. They did not
know when I had had enough, so I just pitched them off back wards; that was the
only thing they could understand.’
    The house, by now, was full
of crippled children.
    ‘What,’ said I, ‘you threw
the children off? I thought you knew better than that. Did you throw Miss
Jessie or Miss Flora?’
    ‘Yes, yes. In fact, I threw
them further than anybody else. I am as careful of the young ladies as the
master could be, and as for the little ones, when they seemed frightened, I
kicked them off. I am their best friend but sadly they don’t seem to know when
I have had enough, so I have to hurl them off. Each one of the children had a
riding whip; I took it in good part but, Christ, it hurt. I didn’t wish to be
cruel, but I’m afraid some of them I put in the hospital. Besides,’ he went on,
‘if I took to kicking then where should I be?’ I don’t know but I know where
they would be — in the hospital with swollen balls.

10

A TALK IN THE ORCHARD
     
    Ginger and I were not of the carriage breed
    We were built for speed
    I had racehorse blood in my veins
    And five pints of it
    I was happy with my mistress on my back
    But, alas, I didn’t know the way back
    I don’t know which way we went
    We must have driven via Surrey, Sussex and Kent.
     
    Ginger and I were not of
the regular tall carriage horse1 breed, we had racing blood; I had a bottle of
about twelve pints in my stable. We stood about fifteen and a half hands high,
but if we stood on a chair we were even taller. We were just as good for riding
as we were for driving or standing on chairs. Our master used to say he
disliked either horse or man who could do but one thing, like play the
trombone. He would mount a horse and] play the trombone. It was a spectacular
sight to see him at full gallop playing ‘The Flight of the Bumble Bee’. Mind
you, he preferred to play it after dark, and consequently, at full gallop, he,
horse and trombone went through many a plate-glass window. Our favourite
practice was for me to saddle Ginger and then mount him, then put a saddle on
my back and our mistress would ride on that. She could see for miles.
    My mouth was so tender and
my teeth had not been spoiled or hardened with McLean’s toothpaste. I always
used a good mouthwash after a meal — it was three-year-old Malt Whisky. Ginger
did not like the bit, and Sir Oliver would say, ‘There, there, don’t vex
yourself.’ Now Ginger never vexed himself — he got another horse to do it for
him.
    I wondered how Sir Oliver
had such a short tail. Was it an accident?
    ‘Accident?’ he snorted.
‘Some cruel boys tied me up and cut off my long beautiful tail, through the
flesh, and through the bone, and took it away.’
    What he had left looked
like a feather duster protruding from his bum. ‘How,’ said Oliver, ‘can I ever
brush flies, mice, grasshoppers, or elephants off my sides?’
    ‘What did they do it for?’
asked Ginger.
    ‘Thieves