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Bonnie Prince Fetlar: The Story of a Pony and His Friends

<h2>CHAPTER III THREE FRIENDS ON DEER TRAIL</h2> I trotted after them and the boy looking over his shoulder at me said, "Is he yours, sir?" "Yes, I got him as a present for a boy." "One of your boys, sir—that is, if those children over there belong to you." Mr. Devering fell behind Dallas and made a forbidding gesture with his hand toward the children. I guessed that he was keeping them back so that he might for some reason or other have this lad to himself for awhile. "Yes," he said, catching up to Dallas, "those are my children." "How many, sir?" "Six." "And they have a mother?" "Oh! yes." The boy's head was drooping thoughtfully. "There is a big brick house next door to us in the city," he said. "Every night I look across the lane and see the children going to bed. The maid undresses them and then the mother comes in and takes them in her arms and rocks and sings to them. So whenever I think of my mother there is a lovely sound of singing in my ears. Was she a fine singer, sir?" [Pg 29] "She was," said the man softly. Then he asked, "Does your father never speak of her, nor those faithful servants John and Margie?" "Never, sir; I used to ask questions about her, but they looked so sad that I gave it up. I fear her death had something painful about it." Mr. Devering turned his eyes away from the boy toward me, they looked very troubled. Then he spoke quietly, "Some day I will take it upon myself to tell you all about your dear mother." "You knew her?" cried the boy. "Very well." Dallas stopped short. His wonderful pale eyes were blazing. "You—knew—my—mother," he said in a low trembling voice. "I have said so," remarked Mr. Devering quietly. "I am glad I came," he said slowly. "Some boys have mothers, some have not. Some boys miss their mothers, some do not. I tell you, sir, it is a sore in my soul, a dreadful painful sore that I have no mother. If she had lived I would be like other boys." The man put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "My lad," he said, "a great deal lies between you and me, but this is not the time to thrash things out. A day will come—later on." It went to my heart to see the young lip tremble. Boys do not like to wait. "I hope—I hope," he muttered to himself, "that the day will soon come. If a boy has had a mother, he should know about her. I—I have not even a little picture of my dear[Pg 30] mother, who of course was beautiful and good and loved her boy as no one else does." Mr. Devering looked at him anxiously, then he said, "To come back to the pony—he is not for one of my boys, he is for a guest." "Oh, indeed," said Dallas absently. "So you expect another boy." "Not this summer—the pony is for your use." "For me!" he exclaimed. "Is this a joke?" "Decidedly not. My children all have ponies. I wished you to have one." "For my very own," he gasped, "this wonderful creature," and he suddenly threw his arm over my back as I pulled up closer to him, feeling oh! so glad that this gentle lad was to be my master. "For your own if you treat him properly. I never give an animal outright till I see how it is used. If you neglect Pony, I shall take him back. If you are good to him, he belongs to you." The boy was so excited that he could scarcely breathe. One trembling hand remained on my back, the other clutched his crumpled shirt front. "You are a prince among men," he said at last in a choked voice. "I wish I were," said Mr. Devering humbly. "I am only a commoner." The boy flung up his handsome head and looked at the blue sky. "Margie is most religious. She said Providence was guiding my steps here." "Let us hope so," said Mr. Devering reverently; "I, too, believe in Providence, which is another name for God." [Pg 31] "Margie goes much to church and sings many hymns," said the boy. "I heard you singing just now," observed Mr. Devering. My master looked frightened. "Did you mind?" "Not a bit—why should I?" "My father never allows me to sing at home." Again a dark look came over the man's face. He might like my young master's father, but he evidently did not approve of all he did. "You may sing just as much as you wish here," he said; "singing is the cry of the soul, and I hope you will teach my youngsters to warble half as well as you do—see, they are running up a flag for you," and he pointed to a flagpole on the lawn in front of the house. "Old Glory!" cried the boy, and taking off his cap he waved it in the air; "but what is that flag they are putting above it?" "The Union Jack—you are in the British Empire now." "So I am—I forgot it, for you Canadians are so much like us Americans. We're great friends, sir, in our two countries now, aren't we?" "Rather, especially since the war, though there are bad men who are trying to drive a wedge between English speaking nations." "Why a wedge, sir?" "To split us apart." "Oh! I see—united we stand, divided we fall." "And if Great Britain and America fall apart, lad, with us go the weaker peoples of the earth. [Pg 32] "I shall always be against the wedge, sir," said the boy earnestly. "I like the good old Union Jack, also I like the Lion of Old England. He's a noble beast." "Isn't he, and can't he roar when anyone touches any of his cubs? You must not forget to pay tribute to him, boy." "Now in what way have I offended the Lion?" asked the boy, and for the first time I heard his whimsical laugh, which was the one finishing touch needed to brighten his thoughtful, almost sad, young personality. "You sang one of your own national songs, boy," he exclaimed, "and never piped a note for the country offering you hospitality." "A thousand pardons, Sir Lion," cried the boy, "here goes for the Empire," and from his beautiful lips came the strains of "God Save the King." "A sweet apology," exclaimed the man; "boy, that goes to my heart. Once years ago I knew a young singer—oh! you take me back." "The young singer being my mother," said the boy quickly. The man bit his lip. Then he nodded his head and walked on. Presently he said in quite a matter-of-fact voice, "This pasture back of the house is for the sheep. They nibble closer than cows." "And the grass is slippery," said the boy, "and I am sliding about on it." "I will get you some proper country boots with nails," said Mr. Devering. "Thank you, sir," said Dallas gratefully. [Pg 33] "You call me sir," said Mr. Devering quite wistfully. "Do you then find me so old?" "Oh, no, no, I feel as if you were a big brother very much older and wiser than I am." I had never heard a boy talk like this before, but it seemed to please the man, for he grew quite red and happy. "It would gratify me very much," he said, "if you and I could be chums as your Dad and I were." "Let's be pals," said the boy; "you seem quite young in your ways." "Do I seem younger than your dad?" "My father is magnificent," said the boy seriously, "quite magnificent, but he says he can't call back his youth. It's slipped away from him. I remember when he said it. We were in his library. He sank 'way down in his big chair, his face was pale, his eyes were closed, I thought he had gone to sleep. Then he rose up and called out, 'Son, I'd give all my books if I could remember what I was thinking about when I was your age. It's all gone.'" Mr. Devering looked serious. "You boys don't know how much we men sympathise with you and long to get down to your level, but the big world catches us and life is strenuous, and——" His voice trailed off into silence and young Dallas said eagerly, "Let's have this wonderful pony for a pal too, and let's have some fancy names. Do you like baseball, sir, and football?" "Immensely." Dallas was enchanted. I saw he was one of those pale faced boys that light up suddenly. "Let's[Pg 34] have some nicknames just for ourselves," he cried, "like boys in books." "All right." "You'll be Captain 'cause you know so much more about things than I do. I'll be Sub, and what will Pony be?" "Babe," suggested Mr. Devering, "after Babe King, the great home-run hitter." "Fine!" cried Dallas, "Captain, Sub and Babe"; then he flourished his arm, "Three cheers for Captain, Sub and Babe, hip, hip, hooray. We're the pals of—— What's the name of this lake?" and he stopped his shouting, which was quiet and unboyish, and turned inquiringly to Mr. Devering. "Fawn Lake." "We're the pals of Fawn Lake—three good pals and true." I loved my nickname, which was flattering to my middle-age, and I stepped more quickly after the man and the boy. "Hurry up, Sub," Mr. Devering was saying. "I thought we'd be half way up the trail by this time." The boy's heart was so full of happiness and he had so thoroughly forgotten his fatigue that he suddenly broke out into song. "Sing out, sing out," said Mr. Devering, "no one will chide you here." So my young master kept on singing, <div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> <div>"Gamarra is a dainty steed</div> <div>Strong, black, and of a noble breed,</div> <div>Full of fire and full of bone,</div> <div>With all his line of fathers known."</div> </div></div> </div> [Pg 35] until he sang himself right into a snake fence. "Gee!" he exclaimed, "what am I to do now?" Mr. Devering smiled, put out his two powerful hands and swung him over. "Splendiferous!" cried Dallas, "but how will Babe get over?" How Mr. Devering laughed at him. "Boy," he said, "allow me to introduce you to Bonnie Prince Fetlar of Cobourg Park." "Now what do you mean by that, Captain?" "Wait and see." Of course I took the fence like a bird, then I stood still and waited for the boy to hear my story. "Sometimes," said Mr. Devering, "it is the jockey that wins the race and sometimes the horse wins the race without the jockey. Two ponies were entered in the pony race at a fair I attended a few weeks ago. Both riders rode bareback. Half way round the track the lad who was riding this demure beast went over his head. Pony went calmly on minus his rider. He stayed with the race like a little man, overhauled all the other ponies and passed the judges' stand a two lengths winner. "The grand stand went mad—'First money for the riderless pony!' they roared, but the judges judged otherwise, and the race had to be run over again. "Once more it began, and once more the boy jockey was unhorsed and went flying over the animal's head. Again pony galloped ahead of his leading rival and took first place. The other jockey was determined to win, and neck and neck[Pg 36] the two ponies drew near the line. Then didn't our riderless friend here sprint and win the race by a length." Young Dallas was almost beside himself with admiration and interest. "Of course," he cried, "our brave little lad got first money." "The grand stand was with you, pal, but the judges awarded the money to the pony that came second with its rider." "Foul play, foul play," cried my young master, "my beauty, my pride," and throwing his arms round my neck he hugged me for the second time that afternoon. "I'm proud of you, my handsome young prince—Why has he such an odd name as Fetlar, Captain?" "Because Fetlar is the island in the Shetlands where Arabian ponies have been crossed with the native breed. Look at this little fellow. He is a wonderful combination of his gentle Scottish forbears and the fine Arabian stock. Note his brilliant prominent eyes, his wise air, refined bearing and short, strong neck." "Arabian blood," repeated the boy, and he began to repeat in a dreamy voice, the lines of "The Arab to His Favourite Steed." <div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> <div>"My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by</div> <div>With thy proudly arched and glossy neck and dark and fiery eye."</div> </div></div> </div> Mr. Devering with a deeply gratified air listened to the boy as he repeated the whole of the touching poem, then he turned on his heel and led us to the smooth wide road running along the edge of the lake. [Pg 37] Dallas was staring at his retreating back in a strange way, and suddenly he ran after him. "I have a queer feeling about you, sir. You don't seem a stranger to me. You call up something that happened when I was a little boy." "What was it?" asked Mr. Devering over his shoulder. "I was walking with Margie on the Common in Boston. A big man came up to us. He sat down on a park bench and took me on his knee. He had toys in his pocket for me. Were you the man, sir?" "I was," said Mr. Devering, "and that was only one of many visits, but come on, lad, we are losing time." Dallas shook his young head with a puzzled air and followed him. I trotted gaily after, my heart as gay as a lark's. After two long months with a horse dealer, I was once more in a family with boys and girls that I love so dearly. What fun I should have watching them and wondering why they do the queer things they do. "Oh! you hurry-upper," my boy was saying now, "you beat this Sub." He was addressing Mr. Devering, whose broad back was just visible in the dim green distance, and suddenly picking up his young heels he ran after him. Of course I ran after the boy, and as I ran I looked about me. This was a peculiar trail we were on. We had left the nice wide road and had branched off [Pg 38]toward the western hills and the afternoon sun. At first there had been grand old maples and beeches standing in groups about pastures each side of us where the black and white Holstein cows were feeding. Now, however, the pastures had given place to dense evergreens which made my young master shudder. There were masses of them standing very close to each other and holding stiff arms across our trail. Precious little of the sun did we see, and it was necessary to keep one's eyes on the path which wound up and down into dark green hollows where beds of maidenhair fern flourished, or up to hilly spots where rock ferns grew in patches on enormous boulders. Little brownish streamlets ran across our track, and the boy was always jumping over or going on stepping stones to keep his feet from getting wet. Suddenly Mr. Devering paused. "Sub," he called back, "this used to be an old road leading up to a farm on Lonesome Hill. Mr. Talker, who brought you in, lived here. It was a mile from our main road and it was a great haul to get supplies in." "Wasn't the lake savage enough for him?" asked the boy ruefully, rubbing his knee that he had just bruised against an outstanding rock. "No," said Mr. Devering, "he adores the forest primeval. His wife was like you, and she struck at last and he had to move out to a house near mine. I bought this place from him and let it run into extra pasturing ground, but now the bears are bothering me and I won't keep any stock here till they get out." <hr /> [Pg 39] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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