Black Beauty

BLACK BEAUTY

The Autobiography of a Horse

by Anna Sewell (an English Quaker who lived from 1820 to 1878)

Black Beauty

Part I

01 My Early Home

The first place I remember was a big, nice field. There was a pond of clear water in it. Shady trees hung over the pond. Tall grass and water-lilies grew at the deep end.

On one side of our field was a farmer's plowed land. On the other side, over a gate, we could see our master's house by the road. At the top of the field was a group of fir trees. At the bottom, a little stream ran under a steep bank.

When I was very young, I only drank my mother's milk. I could not eat grass yet. In the day, I ran beside her. At night, I lay close to her. When it was hot, we stood by the pond in the shade. When it was cold, we had a warm shed near the trees.

When I got old enough to eat grass, my mother went out to work every day. She came back each evening.

There were six other young horses, called colts, in our field. They were older than me. Some were almost as big as grown horses. I ran and played with them. We galloped (ran fast) all around the field together. Sometimes we played rough. They liked to bite and kick while we ran.

One day, some colts were kicking too much. My mother called me over to her. She said:

"Listen to what I am about to tell you. The colts here are good colts. But they are cart-horse colts, and they have not learned good manners. You come from fine parents. Your father is well known here. Your grandfather won a prize two years in a row at the Newmarket horse races. Your grandmother had the sweetest nature of any horse I've known. You have never seen me kick or bite. I hope you grow up gentle and good. Never learn bad ways. Do your work happily. Lift your feet up nicely when you trot. And never bite or kick, even while playing."

I never forgot my mother's advice. I knew she was wise, and our master thought highly of her too. Her name was Duchess, but he often called her Pet.

Our master was kind and good. He gave us good food, a good place to sleep, and kind words. He spoke to us as kindly as he spoke to his own children. We all loved him, and my mother loved him very much. When she saw him at the gate, she would call out happily and run to him. He would pat her and say, "Well, old Pet, how is your little Darkie?" I was a plain black color, so he called me Darkie. He would give me a piece of bread, which I loved. Sometimes he brought my mother a carrot. All the horses liked him, but I think we were his favorites. My mother always pulled his cart to town on market day.

There was a farm boy named Dick who came to our field to pick blackberries from the bushes. After eating his fill, he liked to have "fun" with the colts. He threw stones and sticks to make us run. We didn't mind too much, since we could run away. But sometimes a stone would hit us and hurt.

One day, he was doing this again. He didn't know our master was watching from the next field. Suddenly, our master jumped over the hedge! He grabbed Dick's arm and boxed his ear hard. Dick cried out from the pain and surprise. When we saw our master, we came closer to watch.

"Bad boy!" he said. "Bad boy! Chasing the colts like that. This isn't the first time, or the second. But it is the last! Here — take your pay and go home. I don't want you on my farm anymore." We never saw Dick again after that. Old Daniel, the man who took care of the horses, was just as gentle as our master. We were lucky to have them.

02 The Hunt

Before I turned two years old, something happened that I never forgot. It was early spring. There had been a little frost overnight, and a light mist covered the woods and fields. The other colts and I were eating grass in the lower part of the field. Suddenly, far away, we heard what sounded like dogs barking. The oldest colt lifted his head and said, "There are the hunting dogs!" He ran off, and we all followed him to the top of the field. From there, we could see over the hedge into several fields beyond. My mother and an old horse that our master rode were standing nearby. They seemed to know exactly what was happening.

"They have found a hare (a animal like a rabbit)," said my mother. "If they come this way, we will see the hunt."

Soon, the dogs came running through the young wheat field next to ours. I had never heard such noise! They didn't bark or howl — they made a strange sound, like "yo! yo, o, o!" over and over. Behind them came many men riding horses, some wearing green coats, all galloping fast. The old horse snorted and watched closely. We young colts wanted to run with them too. But they galloped off into the lower fields and seemed to stop there. The dogs stopped barking and sniffed the ground everywhere.

"They have lost the scent," said the old horse. "Maybe the hare will get away."

"What hare?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't know which hare," he said. "It's probably one from our own woods. Any hare will do for the dogs and men to chase." Soon the dogs started their "yo! yo, o, o!" again and came racing back straight toward our field, near the high bank by the stream.

"Now we'll see the hare," said my mother. Just then, a hare ran by, wild with fear, heading for the woods. The dogs chased right behind. They ran over the bank, jumped the stream, and raced across our field. The hunters followed. Six or eight men jumped their horses right over the stream, close behind the dogs. The hare tried to escape through the fence, but it was too thick. She turned to run for the road instead — but it was too late. The dogs caught her. We heard one sharp cry, and that was the end of her. A hunter rode up and pulled the dogs away before they tore her apart completely. He held her up, hurt and bleeding, and all the men seemed pleased.

I was so shocked by this that I almost missed what was happening by the stream. But when I looked, I saw something sad. Two fine horses had fallen. One was struggling in the water. The other lay still on the grass, groaning in pain. One rider climbed out of the water, covered in mud. The other rider lay very still.

"His neck is broken," said my mother.

"Good — he deserved it," said one of the colts.

I agreed at first, but my mother did not.

"No," she said, "you must not say that. I am an old horse, and I've seen and heard much. But I still don't understand why men love this sport so much. It often hurts them, ruins good horses, and tears up the fields — all to catch a hare, fox, or deer that they could get some other, easier way. But we are only horses, and we don't understand everything."

While she spoke, we watched. Many riders had gathered around the fallen young man. But it was our master, who had been watching from nearby, who reached him first and lifted him up. The man's head fell back and his arms hung loose. Everyone looked very serious. It grew quiet — even the dogs stayed still, as if they knew something bad had happened. They carried him to our master's house. I later learned it was young George Gordon, the only son of the local squire (a wealthy landowner). He was tall and fine, and his family was very proud of him.

People rode off in every direction — to fetch the doctor, the horse-doctor (called a farrier), and to tell Squire Gordon about his son. When Mr. Bond the farrier came to check the black horse still lying on the grass, he felt the horse's legs carefully and shook his head. One leg was broken. Someone ran to fetch a gun from our master's house. Soon, there was a loud bang and a terrible cry — and then silence. The black horse did not move again.

My mother was very upset. She said she had known that horse, named Rob Roy, for years. He was a good horse with no bad habits. She never wanted to go near that part of the field again.

A few days later, we heard the church bell ringing for a long time. Looking over the gate, we saw a long black coach covered in black cloth, pulled by black horses. Then came another, and another, and another — all black — while the bell kept ringing. They were carrying young Gordon to be buried at the church. He would never ride again. I never found out what happened to Rob Roy — and all of this over one little hare.

03 My Breaking In

I was growing more handsome now. My coat had become soft and shiny black. I had one white foot and a pretty white star on my forehead. Everyone thought I was very good-looking. My master waited to sell me until I was four years old. He believed young horses shouldn't work hard, just like young children shouldn't do grown-up jobs.

When I turned four, Squire Gordon came to see me. He checked my eyes, my mouth, and my legs carefully. Then he watched me walk, trot, and gallop. He seemed pleased and said, "Once he's properly broken in, he'll do just fine." My master decided to train me himself, since he didn't want me to get scared or hurt. He started the very next day.

Not everyone knows what "breaking in" means, so let me explain. It means teaching a horse to wear a saddle and a bridle (the straps that guide a horse), and to carry a person on its back — going wherever they want, calmly and obediently. The horse must also learn to wear a collar, a crupper, and a breeching (special straps for pulling a cart), and stand still while they're put on. Then a cart is attached behind, so the horse must pull it wherever it walks or trots — going fast or slow, whatever the driver wants. The horse must never be startled by anything it sees, never talk back to other horses, never bite or kick, and never do what it wants instead of what its master wants — even when tired or hungry. But the hardest part of all...