Americans -- England -- Fiction; Diary fiction; World War, 1914-1918 -- England -- Fiction
"I should like to know," I said meekly, as we started, "whether it is
one of my days for obeying you, or one of your days for obeying me?
When I find out, I shall conduct myself accordingly." I got no answer,
yet I soon discovered. There is really something uncanny about him; he
seems to know more than horse or human should know; to have
foreknowledge of events. I must not tell his master, or the charges
will be raised from five shillings a week perhaps to eight; after all,
eight shillings for supernatural wisdom would not be unreasonable! On
the other hand, if it was just plain British contrariness, eight
shillings would be too much, as there is such an over-supply of the
commodity.
I was driving out in the forest to westward, and it is very beautiful
with its great oaks and birches, and its loveliness of yellowing fern.
In spite of the mellow Octoberness everywhere, I was thinking sad
thoughts; all day you can drive here and yet hardly cross one man's
possessions; much of the land lies idle, while people starve in
England; much of it is preserved,--the poor tame pheasants are as
friendly as domestic hens. The tax for charity here is one shilling
four pence a pound; as I read this, I thought of London with its
starving poor, its ribald poor, and I wondered if this great kingdom
will vanish because the people do not pull together better. The blind
selfishness of the upper class with their glass-guarded walls is a
greater menace than the German siege guns.
I came to a cross road, or cross path, grassy paths both, with creeping
green moss among the roots of the trees on either side. It was hard to
decide which way to go; I chose the right and pulled the rein; Puck
chose the left and started. I tugged at the right and told him to go
on; he said he wouldn't; again I told him, and he shook his head, shook
himself all over with his head down, until his harness rattled. When I
told him a third time, he stamped, kicked, and pulled with all his
might to the left. Of course he got his way; some people passed; I was
not going to be convicted of inadequate horsemanship, being only an
American, so I assumed a calm and masterful British look, as if that
were the way I had all along meant to go, and we jogged on. The
self-satisfaction in that little creature's air! He turned his head
around now and then, trying to see how I was taking it; having had his
own way, he went at a jolly pace; he loves to start rabbits and make
the pheasants fly up. Presently, at a turn in the road, he shied; he
did it quite theatrically, as if he had worked it all out in his mind
and had achieved the intended effect. He expected me to be startled and
to rein him in, fighting to control him, but I did nothing of the kind.
I merely let the reins lie loose and watched him; he subsided very
suddenly and dejectedly at having lost his fun.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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