Black Beauty

The Autobiography of a Horse

by Anna Sewell

To my dear and honored Mother, whose life, no less than her pen, has been devoted to the welfare of others, this little book is affectionately dedicated.

Part I

Chapter 1: My Early Home

The first place I can clearly remember was a large, pleasant meadow with a pond of clear water in it. Shady trees leaned over the pond, and reeds and water-lilies grew where the water was deepest. On one side, we could look over the hedge into a plowed field. On the other side, we looked over a gate at our master's house, which stood by the road. At the top of the meadow stood a grove of fir trees, and at the bottom ran a brook, or small stream, with a steep bank hanging over it.

While I was young, I lived on my mother's milk, since I couldn't eat grass yet. During the day I ran along beside her, and at night I lay down close to her side. When the weather was hot, we stood in the shade of the trees by the pond. When it was cold, we had a warm shed near the grove to shelter in.

As soon as I was old enough to eat grass, my mother began going out to work during the day, coming back each evening.

Six other young colts (baby horses) lived in the meadow with me. They were older than I was, and some were almost as big as full-grown horses. I loved running and playing with them, galloping together around and around the field as fast as we could go. Sometimes our play got rough, because the older colts would bite and kick while they galloped.

One day, after some particularly rough kicking, my mother called me over with a soft whinny and said, "I want you to listen carefully to what I'm about to tell you. The colts who live here are good colts, but they're cart-horse colts, and they haven't learned proper manners. You come from fine breeding — your father is well-known and respected around here, and your grandfather won a racing trophy two years running at the Newmarket races. Your grandmother had the gentlest temper of any horse I've ever known, and you've never once seen me kick or bite. I hope you grow up gentle and good, and never pick up bad habits. Always do your work willingly, lift your feet properly when you trot, and never bite or kick — not even while playing."

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

Our master was a kind and good man. He gave us good food, a comfortable place to sleep, and gentle words — speaking to us just as kindly as he spoke to his own children. We were all fond of him, especially my mother. Whenever she spotted him at the gate, she would neigh happily and trot over. He would pat her and say, "Well, old Pet, how's your little Darkie doing?" (He called me Darkie because of my deep black color.) Then he'd give me a piece of bread, which I loved, and sometimes bring my mother a carrot. All the horses liked him, but I think we were his favorites. My mother always pulled his light carriage into town on market days.

A farmhand named Dick sometimes wandered into our field to pick blackberries from the hedge. Once he'd eaten his fill, he liked to have what he called "fun" with the colts — throwing sticks and stones to make us run. Usually we didn't mind much, since we could simply gallop away, but sometimes a stone would strike and hurt one of us.

One day, while Dick was playing this game, he didn't realize our master was nearby in the next field, watching everything. Suddenly the master leaped over the hedge, grabbed Dick by the arm, and boxed his ear so hard that the boy cried out in pain and shock. When we saw our master, we all trotted closer to watch what would happen.

"Bad boy!" the master shouted. "This isn't the first time you've done this, or even the second — but it will be the last. Here's your pay. Go home, and don't come back to my farm again." We never saw Dick after that. Old Daniel, the man in charge of caring for the horses, was just as gentle as our master, so we were fortunate indeed.

Chapter 2: The Hunt

Before I turned two years old, something happened that I've never forgotten. It was early spring, with a light frost still clinging to the morning air, and mist hanging over the woods and fields. The other colts and I were grazing in the lower part of the meadow when we heard, far off in the distance, a sound like barking dogs. The oldest colt lifted his head, pricked up his ears, and said, "Those are hunting hounds!" He immediately galloped toward the upper part of the field, and the rest of us followed, until we could look over the hedge and see several fields beyond ours. My mother and an old horse that our master used for riding stood nearby too, seeming to understand exactly what was happening.

"They've found a hare," my mother said. "If they come this way, we'll get to watch the hunt."

Soon the dogs came tearing through the field of young wheat next to ours, making the strangest noise I'd ever heard — not barking or howling, but a constant cry of "yo! yo, o, o! yo! yo, o, o!" at the top of their lungs. Behind them rode a group of men on horseback, some wearing green coats, all galloping as fast as possible. The old horse beside us snorted and watched eagerly, and we young colts wished we could gallop along with them. But the hunt soon moved farther down the fields, where the dogs seemed to stop, running in circles with their noses pressed to the ground.

"They've lost the scent," the old horse explained. "Maybe the hare will escape."

"What hare?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't know exactly which hare," he said. "It's probably one from our own woods. Any hare will do for the dogs and riders to chase." Before long, the dogs picked up the cry again and came racing back toward our meadow, right where the high bank and hedge hung over the brook.

"Now we'll see the hare," my mother said. Just then, a hare — clearly terrified — dashed past us, racing for the safety of the woods. The dogs followed close behind, bursting over the bank, leaping across the stream, and charging through the field with the huntsmen right on their heels. Six or eight riders jumped their horses cleanly over the brook, following close behind the dogs. The hare tried to squeeze through a fence, but it was too thick, so she turned sharply toward the road instead. It was too late. The dogs caught her, and we heard one sharp cry — and that was the end of her. One of the huntsmen rode up and pulled the dogs away before they could tear her apart completely. He held her up by the leg, torn and bleeding, and all the gentlemen seemed quite pleased with the hunt.

I was so shocked by all this that I almost missed something else happening down by the brook. When I finally looked, I saw a troubling scene: two fine horses had fallen. One struggled in the stream while the other lay groaning on the grass. One rider was climbing out of the water, covered in mud, but the other rider lay completely still.

"His neck is broken," my mother said quietly.

"Serves him right," said one of the colts.

I agreed at first, but my mother didn't feel the same way.

"No," she said, "you shouldn't say that. I'm an old horse, and I've seen and heard a great deal in my time, but I still can't understand why people love this sport so much. They often hurt themselves, ruin good horses, and tear up the fields — all for a hare, a fox, or a deer that they could easily catch some other way. But we're only horses, and we don't understand everything."

While my mother spoke, we all watched the scene unfold. Several riders rushed to help the fallen young man, but it was our master — who had been watching from a distance — who reached him first and lifted him up. The young man's head fell back, his arms hung limp, and everyone around looked deeply serious. The noise died down completely; even the dogs went quiet, as if they sensed something terrible had happened. They carried him back to our master's house. I later learned his name was George Gordon, the only son of the local squire (a country gentleman) — a fine, tall young man and the pride of his family.

Riders scattered in every direction — some racing for the doctor, others for the farrier (a craftsman who cares for horses' hooves and shoes), and no doubt someone rushing to tell Squire Gordon about his son. When Mr. Bond, the farrier, examined the black horse still groaning on the grass, he felt along its legs carefully and shook his head grimly — one leg was broken. Someone ran back to the house and returned with a gun. Moments later came a loud bang, followed by a terrible cry, and then silence. The black horse would move no more.

My mother seemed deeply troubled by this. She said she'd known that horse — named Rob Roy — for years, and that he'd been a good horse with no bad habits at all. She never wanted to go near that part of the field again.

A few days later, we heard the church bell tolling slowly for a long stretch of time. Looking over the gate, we saw a long, unusual black carriage covered in black cloth, pulled by black horses. Behind it came another, and another, and another — all black, while the bell continued its slow, mournful ringing. They were carrying young Gordon to the churchyard to be buried. He would never ride again. I never learned what became of Rob Roy — but all of this happened because of one little hare.

Chapter 3: My Breaking In

By this time, I was growing into a handsome young horse. My coat had become soft and glossy, a deep shining black, with one white foot and a pretty white star marking my forehead. Everyone agreed I was quite good-looking. My master refused to sell me until I turned four, believing that young horses — like young people — shouldn't be forced into adult work too soon.

When I turned four, Squire Gordon came to examine me. He checked my eyes, my mouth, and my legs carefully, feeling all the way down each one. 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 break me in himself, since he didn't want me to be frightened or hurt during the process, and he began the very next day.

Not everyone knows what "breaking in" means, so let me explain. It's the process of teaching a horse to wear a saddle and bridle, and to carry a rider — whether a man, woman, or child — going exactly where they direct, calmly and obediently. Beyond that, a horse must also learn to wear a collar, a crupper (a strap under the tail), and a breeching (a strap across the back end), standing still while all this equipment is fastened into place. Then a cart or carriage gets attached behind, so the horse can't move at all — walking or trotting — without pulling the vehicle along too. The horse must move fast or slow exactly as the driver wishes, never starting in fear at unexpected sights, never talking to other horses, never biting or kicking, and never following its own wishes. Instead, it must always obey its master's commands, no matter how tired or hungry it might feel. And worst of all—