<h2><span>CHAPTER XVIII</span> <span class="smaller">THE ARRIVAL OF THE PONIES</span></h2>
<p>There was nothing soft about the way they were brought up, and they had
had some good punishments lately for leaving the table without
permission, and for noise-making at improper times.</p>
<p>Mrs. Devering gazed at them, and I thought to myself that I had never
seen a prouder or more loving mother-look on a woman's face.</p>
<p>Finally she said in a low voice, "I forgive you—the provocation was
great, all except Sojer. Come here, my boy."</p>
<p>The other children dashed away, and Sojer going fearlessly to her
pressed close against her shoulder as she sat at the head of the table.</p>
<p>"My darling," she said, "can't you remember to lower your voice when you
are conversing?"</p>
<p>"Mother!" he exclaimed with another shout, "I didn't know you had two
dimples. There's a little weeny one 'way over here on your left cheek."</p>
<p>"Whisper that sentence," she said, holding up a finger as if he were a
little dog.</p>
<p>Sojer's eyes twinkled and he began in husky tones,</p>
<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>"You're my Mummy, you're my dear,</div>
<div>I love your little dimple right, right here."</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>Then he threw his arms about her and hugged her.</p>
<p>"Incorrigible!" she murmured, then her eye fell on my young master, who
often lingered near her in fascination when she caressed her children.</p>
<p>"What do you think of these noisy cousins of yours, my boy?"</p>
<p>"I love them, Aunt Bretta," he said simply, "and I love you, too. I find
you so—so comely."</p>
<p>She got up, and going to him put her arm round him, and kissed him very
kindly.</p>
<p>Dallas shut his eyes. "I'm just imagining you are my own mother, Aunt
Bretta."</p>
<p>"And I will be," she said earnestly, "until you have a mother of your
own. Kiss me night and morning as my own children do, and come to me
with all your little troubles."</p>
<p>Dallas stared at her in surprise, but she turned to Sojer. "Take him to
see the ponies, laddie. It is really quite a sight when they come home
from over the mountain."</p>
<p>I trotted after my master in great excitement. Oh! how would the king of
the ponies treat me? He belonged to Big Chief, and I have often noticed
that as is the master so is the pony. Should I still be leader of animal
society on the farm as the silly Lammie-noo had said?</p>
<p>There they all came, sweeping down the road from the head of the lake,
two fine saddle horses leading, and behind them the surging band of
ponies, their eyes glowing with anticipation as they got near their
pleasant home and beloved owners.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>Astride the handsomer of the horses was a young man I had not seen
before, but I soon found out that all these fine animals were his
especial care.</p>
<p>"Which is which, dear Cousin Cassowary?" Dallas was exclaiming
excitedly. "First—that noble bay the young man is on."</p>
<p>"That's Patsie McSquirrel," she said, "Dad's horse. Isn't it delicious
to see him getting over the ground in that running walk of his, and
nodding his head and flapping his ears to keep time with his footfalls?"</p>
<p>"So that is what you call a running walk," said my young master.</p>
<p>"Yes, it's an all-day gait, easy alike to horse and rider. Dad is often
away for a week or two at a time with his Patsie. That walk-trot-canter
sorrel beside Patsie is Mother's Backwoods Beauty. He's a dear, too.
Look at his style in the way he carries his head, and the arch of his
neck and tail. His body is rounded and better turned than Patsie's, but
he hasn't as strong a back."</p>
<p>"Just look at the kids," said Dallas.</p>
<p>It was a pretty sight to see each child running to his or her pet.
Cassowary alone did not move. Her pony, Apache Girl, came stepping
behind her, and thrust her head over her mistress' shoulder.</p>
<p>Cassowary's pony was as queer as she was. She merely put up her hand and
rubbed the young animal's poll without turning round.</p>
<p>This Apache Girl was a tough looking, sporty pony, ewe-necked and
appearing capable of any amount of hard work. I didn't like her eye. It<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</SPAN></span>
showed spirit, but also a provoking temper. "One can't always tell what
an Indian pony will do," I thought as I whinnied gently to her.</p>
<p>She turned her head away, and never said a word, so I went on examining
the other ponies.</p>
<p>Big Chief had sprung proudly to the back of his Hackney pony, who was an
animal showing quality and finish, but who was also sensational and
smart, and had a flashy way of going with head and tail carried high.</p>
<p>"That's Attaboy," said Cassowary to Dallas. "We call him 'Peacock
Attaboy' when Big Chief isn't round. Doesn't he cut a dash?"</p>
<p>"Big Chief likes that," said Dallas softly. Then he burst into laughter.</p>
<p>Little Big Wig, both arms round the neck of his tiny sturdy miniature
work-horse pony, was galloping down the road and would soon be out of
sight.</p>
<p>I gazed after them, my heart in my mouth. That was the Master of
Bressay—that little piebald creature with the pale blue eyes, and
Bressay was the island that a little pony friend of mine had come
from—a dear little friend who died. I recalled the many stories he had
told me of his home island and decided that of all the ponies the Master
of Bressay would be my favourite. My longing eyes followed him as he
tore along, as safe as a table for the child, his fuzzy-wuzzy body
looking like an Angora cat blown the wrong way by the wind. There was no
Arabian blood in him. He was part Shetland and part Icelandic, and as
little Big Wig had said, "Not very well-bred."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>Flashing by us after Big Wig was Dovey on a donkey, and my young master
just yelled with enjoyment.</p>
<p>"I didn't notice it before," he cried. "Why hasn't she a pony? Oh! isn't
he funny with his long ears and that queer tail with so little hair on
it?"</p>
<p>"She wanted a donkey," said Cassowary, "and she got it. Dad said,
'Anything you like, children, in the shape of horseflesh.' She just
loves her Jack Bray, and I tell you he has speed and endurance in that
angular leggy body of his, and you just ought to see him rub her
shoulder ever so gently with his creamy old muzzle. He loves her, and
she is so good to him. Your Bonnie Prince Fetlar will have to fight for
his carrots now," and she put out a hand and stroked me kindly.</p>
<p>"What's Sojer's pony's name, and what kind is he?" asked Dallas.</p>
<p>"He's an Exmoor—climbs banks and leaps ditches like a wild creature."</p>
<p>"What's his name, Cousin?"</p>
<p>"Exmoor Pendennis, but we call him Hendennis because last winter he let
Biddy Pilgrim roost on his back all through the cold weather. She's
pretty long-headed, and had found out he was a perpetual electric
cushion. The men for fun let her sleep in the stable. Henny got to love
his Plymouth Rock, and she will never be killed. 'Pon my word! she's
running to meet him."</p>
<p>Ponies and horses all this time had been joyfully making their way
toward their stable quarters, and Biddy, seeing them entering the
farmyard, had<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</SPAN></span> singled out the Exmoor and was fluttering excitedly about
him.</p>
<p>"And some people say hens have no sense," remarked Dallas.</p>
<p>"Just as much sense as anybody," said Cassowary, who never lost a chance
to champion the cause of the lower creation. "Now isn't it pathetic to
see Mrs. Biddy pecking the pony's hoofs so lovingly, and now he's
putting his head down—he's glad to see her."</p>
<p>"Champ's pony is the only one you haven't introduced," said Dallas.
"What's his name?"</p>
<p>"He's David Wales. I like him better than Big Chief's Hackney. Notice
his snappy and free way and his good head and neck. I tell you he's a
well-formed little fellow, and fine for rough districts. The Welsh
ponies are always rugged and thrifty sort of creatures. I don't like
them as well as other kinds for small children. Champ is just old enough
to manage him."</p>
<p>"Is he vicious?" asked my young master.</p>
<p>"Not a bit, but he wants a firm hand. There's heaps of go in him. Come
on, let's run up to the stable and have a crack wi' Jock. He's a
University graduate and has dandy manners—son of an old friend of
Dad's—came here for his health. Wait till you hear him play the violin.</p>
<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>"'Let's all go mad!</div>
<div>Let's all go mad!'"</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>and the young girl began to dance her way toward the stable yard, while
Apache Girl zigzagged behind her.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>My young master, not to be outdone by anyone, began to dance, too, and
sing, and his beautiful voice soon drowned Cassowary's for he forgot all
about her.</p>
<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>"Here we go up to the stable, stable,"</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>he sang, for he, too was learning to make up doggerel as fast as his
cousins.</p>
<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>"Here we go up to the stable, stable,</div>
<div>Just as fast as we're able, able,</div>
<div>Ponies and children and hens galore</div>
<div>Not any room for a critter more!"</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Didn't I do my best steps to this jingle, and Apache Girl seeing me
prance so well, began to look on me with more favor.</p>
<p>"Where do you come from?" she asked.</p>
<p>"The United States of America."</p>
<p>She neighed quite shrilly. "My ancestors were brought to America by the
Spaniards."</p>
<p>"Indeed," I said gently. "They were a very high-class race."</p>
<p>"They were capable of very severe work under the saddle," she said, "and
they got it."</p>
<p>"Well!" I replied, "Shetlands can do most anything. I'm not proud. I
know my ancestors used to help the crofters with their work, notably in
carrying panniers of peat."</p>
<p>"But you are very first-class," she said with a side glance at me from
her queer eyes, "though you are a cross-breed."</p>
<p>"I'm valued pretty well," I said modestly, "though I stand a bit high—I
hope we may be friends. I'm very devoted to your young mistress."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>She tossed her head and said nothing, and I thought it wise to make no
further advances, and trotted soberly beside her into the stable.</p>
<p>Cassowary was running in from the supply room with a framed name in her
hand—"Apache Girl," and many ribbons hanging from it.</p>
<p>"There, my beauty," she said, hanging it up in the stall. "Come in and
have some oats."</p>
<p>Jock, or to give him his real name, Mr. John Alexander Macdonald, who
had been chaffing the boys, came forward and took off his cap.</p>
<p>Cassowary shook hands with him in a sober way, but flashed her white
teeth at him.</p>
<p>Oh! what a nice young man he was, and so devoted to his ponies and
horses. He was not at all good-looking. His hair was sandy and his
complexion freckled, but the kindness of his face and the charm of his
manner made up for the absence of good looks.</p>
<p>He stood as straight as one of the stall posts, and talked about farm
matters in as interested a way as if the place belonged to him.</p>
<p>"We missed you," said Cassowary. "Dad and Mother don't like to play
without their second fiddle."</p>
<p>"And I missed you," he said. "It was often lonely over the mountain."</p>
<p>"But camping out is great fun," said Champ. "Me for the open."</p>
<p>"Dallas, come here," said Cassowary suddenly to my young master, who was
in the background.</p>
<p>It pleased me immensely to see that the young<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</SPAN></span> man could not keep the
admiration out of his eyes when he shook hands with my dear young
master.</p>
<p>"And he sings," exclaimed Cassowary. "Won't he be an addition to our
choir!"</p>
<p>Big Chief, who was in a nearby stall picking the hoofs of his Hackney as
he had got some small stones in them on his trip home, gave a kind of
groan. He hated to hear anyone praise Dallas.</p>
<p>Cassowary was just going to snap at Big Chief when she caught sight of
the fire warden's red canoe coming up the lake.</p>
<p>"He's got the mail, he's got the mail," she cried, and in two seconds
there wasn't a child in the stable.</p>
<p>"Stop a bit, little fellow," said Mr. Macdonald to me. "I want to give
you the once-over."</p>
<p>However, I was so impatient that he kindly let me go, after a
preliminary canter only over my points.</p>
<p>I always loved to see the mail come in. The big leather bag was handed
to Mrs. Devering, who sat on the veranda and opened it with as much
ceremony as if it had been a Christmas parcel. There were always
surprises in it, for the Deverings had many kind friends and relatives,
many of whom thought they were banished in this attractive place.</p>
<p>To-day the mail was unusually heavy. So many letters and such nice books
and magazines came tumbling out, and among them was a fat little package
for Dallas.</p>
<p>He took it so joyfully, dear lad, and opened it speedily, not knowing
that its sweet contents were to bring him much sorrow.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</SPAN></span></p>
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