Dapples of the Circus

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The Story of a Shetland Pony and a Boy

Dapples of the Circus The Story of a Shetland Pony and a Boy

By Clarence Hawkes Author of "Big Brother, The Bear," "Silversheene, King of Sled Dogs."

Introduction

THE home of the Shetland pony is the Shetland Islands, a group of about a hundred sea-girt, wind swept islands, situated in the North Sea about fifty miles northeast of the north of Scotland. These lonely islands together with the Orkneys, which are much nearer the mainland, form one of the shires, or counties, of Scotland.

These islands were inhabited many centuries ago by those little dark people called the Picts. Much has been written about them, but they have so many legends and myths surrounding them, that they belong partly to fairy-land, although they were a real people who flourished many centuries ago on these strange islands. But finally the Norsemen, who were much larger and stronger, came to the islands and drove out the Picts. The islands were also settled by the Scots, so that to-day the real Shetlander is a mixture of Pict, Norse, and Scotch.

These people are a very simple folk, who follow the sea from June until September, the herring fisheries of the islands being the most important industry.

The main island of Shetland is about fifty miles in length, but it is so indented with voes, or bays, and so irregular that nowhere is the inland farm more than three miles from the sea.

This island of Shetland is the largest of the one hundred islands that form the Shetland group. Its seacoast is as wild and weird as nature could well make it. The winds and the waves have been hammering away at the coast-line for untold ages, and their workmanship is very wonderful. Thus it is that one sees caves and grottoes along the coast. Great pillars of solid rock, called drongs, stand far out at sea, rearing their heads like the giants of old. Natural gates of solid rock often guard the narrow waterways that lead to some voe where a native town is located.

The country also abounds with strange tales of the Picts and the old Vikings, of the haunts of fairies and witches, so it is altogether an eerie place.

Twenty-seven of the islands of this group are inhabited, while there are about seventy which are used only for grazing the diminutive horses, cattle, and sheep, for all the domestic animals on these islands are very small, like the Shetland pony, so well known to us.

From very ancient times these little horses have existed on the Shetland Islands, just as the little cows and sheep have, but it is only within the last seventy years that they have been exported in large numbers. But not all Shetland ponies are so fortunate as those which find their way to America and England, to become the much-adored companions of children, for many of them find their way into the mines, where they have to work very hard down in the dark and the dampness.

When we speak of a child's pony, we usually refer to the Shetland, although there are two other kinds which are important and much in demand. But the Shetland, because he is the smallest, is the favorite. The Welsh pony, which has existed in a wild state in the mountains of Wales for the past two thousand years, is the next larger of the ponies, while the high-stepping dandy, the Hackney, is the largest of the three. He is usually about fourteen hands high, and is only one step removed from a real horse.

The true Shetland is from nine to twelve hands high, that is, from thirty-six to forty-eight inches. A hand, which is the unit of measurement for the height of a horse, be he large or small, is four inches. The weight of the Shetland pony is anywhere from two hundred and fifty pounds to four hundred, or even more if he is very fat. He is not a plaything, but a real little horse. His build is that of a dray-horse, being very blocky.

Some horse-fanciers, such as Colonel Balfour, have succeeded, by long breeding, in making a more slender Shetland. This is the type of pony usually seen in the ring, or horse show. Such a little beauty is Silver Tip, Second, who is valued at ten thousand dollars.

These little ponies are very clever and easily taught tricks, so from the early centuries old writings tell of the trick ponies which were shown at the country fairs in old England and on the Continent.

The life of the Shetland pony on his native heath is anything but the rosy path that he treads once he is imported and becomes a child's pet. Not only are these islands cold, but their vegetation is also scant. The islanders take much better care of their small sheep and cattle than of their ponies.

These little horses are very hardy, and much exposure has developed a long, thick coat, so that in Shetland they are left out all winter long and made to paw the snow away from their scant feed. This is so scarce on the moor that they usually come down to the seashore and paw in the snow for seaweed and mosses.

The little colts are foaled in the spring and allowed to run with the mares, often till they are a year old. So it is not a strange thing for a Shetland colt who is only six months old to be out in the bitter winter cold, shivering at the flank of his dam. The Shetland pony when foaled weighs only about thirty pounds, and is a very awkward little horse, all legs and head, but he shapes up rapidly.

The most common colors of Shetlands are black, gray, white, and brown, although the English breeders have produced some fine dapple bays and other fancy colors.

For his size and weight the Shetland pony is the most wonderful little animal that has ever been taught to labor for man. His strength and endurance are remarkable. His willingness also is endless. Be kind to him, and he will give you all the strength and speed there is in him. He will pull a load several times his own weight, or will travel light for hours at his steady, even, mincing trot, his head up, his heavy mane and tail floating out to the breeze, and his entire manner plainly saying, "Don't you see how important I am? I am working for my little friends."

Although the gentlest and the most lovable and loving little chap imaginable, when trained, yet the wild ponies of Shetland often take on the character of their hard environment. Among themselves the stallions often fight terrible battles, which occasionally end in the death of one of the combatants.

Is it any wonder that they become hard like their lives when we consider how they are left to shift for themselves in winter? Even if they are sometimes sheltered and fed, yet it will be in an open shed where a domestic, full-sized horse would freeze. Their feed, when they are lucky enough to be fed at all, is only what the cattle and sheep leave. But for the better part of the year they shift for themselves, and survive or perish as fate wills. They are mere shadows of their usual plump selves when the spring at last comes and the scant feed appears on the moor.

Is it not wonderful that these little horses, reared in hardship, so soon adapt themselves to the ways of civilized men? This is perhaps why they take so kindly to petting and return so much gratitude for what is done for them by their little masters.

Under the saddle, or harnessed to the phaeton, they are equally willing. Once they become attached to their small owners, they take a certain pride in their little friends, and seem to develop a great sense of responsibility.

In these days of machines, when so much is artificial, what better playmate could children have than one of these little horses? Learning to care for him and to drive him under all conditions, develops character as almost nothing else will. It teaches the child to be kind, thoughtful, and self-reliant. All that one may need to know about a large horse may be learned from driving this little animal. The child who can ride a Shetland gracefully need not fear a larger mount. The child who can guide him successfully under all conditions by the rein, can, when he is older and stronger, drive any horse.

But the Shetland's best trait is his affection for his little friends. He will watch for their coming as eagerly as a dog. He will nicker at their approach, and nuzzle their hands with genuine affection when they finally appear.

In the harness he is the very soul of fidelity. He will go and go till he drops, and even then will wish that he had more strength and horse love to give.

So if you wish to make the children happy and at the same time develop their character; if you wish to have them learn to be kind, self-reliant, and happy, give them a Shetland pony. He will show them more country and give them more perfectly safe adventures than any other investment of an equal size.

Besides all this, he will show them fidelity and patience, and will find his way into their child hearts and teach them love, which is the greatest of all human treasures.

For a perfect picture of the Shetland, in all his small horse charm, I refer you to that wonderful horse book, "Black Beauty," and the chapter on Little Merrylegs. It will do your heart good to read about him, and to know how wonderful and lovable these little horses really are.

The Rivals

AT the time of our story there dwelt in the northern part of the Island of Shetland a Norwegian named Hans Pederson. He and his good wife and their two children, Hans, aged ten, and Olga, aged eight, comprised the family. By that I mean the human family; but the cattle and sheep often wandered into the house at the back door, or even a small colt might be taken in to carry him safely over a cold spell.

Most of the people on the island were either Norwegian, or Dutch, or descendants from the Norse or Picts, but so blended by time that they were a sort of new race, the Shetlander of to-day.

Hans Pederson's farm boasted about twenty Shetland ponies, four cows, and fifty sheep. Like most of the islanders, Hans also owned a fishing smack, and from June until September he was off with the fishing fleets of the island. This left the farm in the care of his good wife and the boy and girl, so the two children became very expert little farmers.

They knew all the ponies, the cattle, and even the sheep. They could do almost anything with the stock that their father could. They knew every acre of the farm, both in the hills and on the moors. The farm was like most of those in Shetland, scant of soil and generously sprinkled with rocks. In fact, much of the soil had to be made by carting on sods and seaweed, the latter being also used for fertilizer.

Three years before the opening of my story, there had been foaled at the Pederson farm a Shetland colt which afterwards gained the name of Black Fury. This was because of his bad temper. Shetlands are usually very amiable little horses, but there is occasionally a stallion that gets rather wild and often vicious. But the thing that caused Black Fury's bad temper was jealousy. He had a rival in the little herd of mares, and this seemed to make him furious.

All had gone well with Black Fury until he was a year old. Then his master had decided to import a better-bred stallion in hopes that he might improve his breed of little horses. Accordingly, he sent to the celebrated stables of Colonel Balfour, whose breed of Shetlands is known the world over. A month or two later the new stallion arrived. He was only a year old, just the age of Black Fury, who had not even gained this name at the time, but was called Blackie.

There was much excitement on the farm when Mr. Pederson drove away to town to get the new pedigreed pony. The children were still more excited as the farmer returned with a large box, taking up nearly the whole of the small wagon.

When the box was finally unloaded and they got their first peep at the new horse, the children knew at once that he would be their favorite for all time. He was a wonderful little dapple bay. His coat was short, the result of much clipping and breeding for a short coat. This was in glaring contrast to the long, shaggy, rather sorry coats of the island ponies.

The newcomer was a thoroughbred in every way. He was much slighter of build than the native stock, and this made him look more like a real horse. His mane and tail were very heavy and glossy black. His eyes were large and soft, and he was as loving and gentle as a lamb.

Hans at once climbed upon his back, while Olga put her arms about his neck and laid her face against his cheek. All of which the sleek little horse took very much as a matter of course.

"Oh, isn't he a beauty!" cried Olga excitedly. "What shall we call him?"

"His registered name," said Mr. Pederson, "is Sir Wilton Second, but I think we had better call him Dapple Dandy." This name fitted him so well that it stuck. So to the children and the neighbors he was always Dapple Dandy, but to men who came to the farm to buy horses, he was Sir Wilton Second.

The Pedersons at once took the newcomer into the family. He was given a stall in an open shed, which was really palatial for a Shetland pony. But it did not seem to impress him very much. If they could have seen the box stall from which he had been taken when he was crated and sent to the island, they would not have wondered at his indifference.

The children spent all their playtime with him. They rode him horseback, and they fed and watered him, in fact, took the entire care of him, after getting their instructions from their father. It happened about a week after the arrival of Dapple Dandy, that Blackie wandered in from the hills to see what was going on at the house.

The first thing that met his eyes was the new colt in the yard, and the children, who had been in the habit of petting him, were playing with the stranger. This at once aroused Blackie's anger. He trotted up to the newcomer and sniffed noses with him. Sir Wilton was very affable and did not put on many airs, but Blackie divined at once that he considered himself much superior to the rusty-black, shaggy Shetland from the hills, so he unceremoniously nipped Sir Wilton in the face.

Dapple Dandy drew back in astonishment. He had never been treated so rudely before. He had been trying to be nice, and this rowdy had nipped him. It was beyond his understanding, so he turned his head away and would not even look at Blackie.

This was unfortunate, for it put him at a disadvantage, so he did not see the next move of the small savage from the hills.

Before any one even guessed his intent, Blackie wheeled and lashed out at Sir Wilton with both his heels, one of which struck him in the chest.

At this point in the strange scene, Mr. Pederson, who had been watching from the shed, came out with a whip and drove the fuming Blackie away, while he carefully examined Sir Wilton's chest to discover if he had been injured.

"Is he hurt?" cried the children in the same breath.

"No, I guess not," replied their father; "but I don't want that black imp kicking him in that way every day."

"Why did he do it?" asked Hans.

"He recognized a future rival among the mares. It is the way of stallions. I am sorry that he is so spiteful. I am afraid we'll have trouble if we try to keep both horses on the range when they grow up. But perhaps it will blow over."

Instead, from that day the two little horses were deadly rivals. Not that Dapple Dandy carried the war as far as did his rival. He simply defended himself as well as he could. But the hatchet was never buried. War between them always existed until the fatal winter twilight when they fought that desperate battle to the death in a little pocket far up among the hills.

The Battle

BECAUSE of the jealousy between Blackie and the newcomer, Blackie was seen less and less around the farm buildings, and Dapple Dandy was very loath to leave and go with the rest of the colts to the hills for feed.

But it must be understood that most of the jealousy and hatred was on the side of Black Fury. He was not so refined or so much of a gentleman as his sleek relative from the Colonel Balfour stables.

For the first few days the children had to feed Sir Wilton to keep him from starving. They fed him the black oats and small flint corn and barley raised in the island. He did not much relish it, since it was not as sweet as the feed he was used to, but the children, by much petting and coaxing, whetted his appetite. The keen winds and the bracing air of the island also played an important part, so he gradually got used to his coarse feed. His first journeys away from the farm buildings were on the moor, where he went to graze with the strange little sheep that pastured there. These sheep were about half the size of ordinary sheep, but as lively as fleas. This Dapple Dandy discovered when he tried to chase them. The moors were intersected with ditches, which were partly filled with water. This was necessary, to keep them dry enough so that the stock could feed upon them. These ditches the sheep would jump like deer, and Sir Wilton soon learned to jump them, too.

The feed on the moors was not very appetizing. It consisted of rushes, reeds, and a thick lush or marsh grass, with some tender mosses which the sheep would eat, but which Dapple Dandy did not fancy.

But the new colt did not even go on the moors of his own accord, for the children had to drive him there each day. He had never had to work for his oats, and he did not see why he should now. To him life had always been one long holiday, with nothing to do but take the good things that came his way, and occasionally kick up a bit or take a short gallop if he felt especially frolicsome; but life as a hard struggle for sustenance, such as it was to the native island ponies, Sir Wilton did not know.

After he had become well acquainted with the sheep and the moors, the children drove him to the foothills, where the cows were pastured. The cows were gentle, mild-eyed creatures who gave a surprising lot of milk for their size.

The feed here was sweeter and more to the colt's liking. The cows treated him with respect and consideration, so he got along very well. Occasionally some of the wild colts strayed in among the cows and Dapple Dandy made their acquaintance. But the horses stayed in the hills most of the time. The feed in the cow pastures was rather scant, and one had to learn to distinguish the grass from heather, or harebells, or thistles, which Sir Wilton learned to do after several sorry mistakes.

One June morning, when he had been with the Pedersons about two months, he was feeding away peacefully in a sheltered spot, when he heard a sound of mad galloping close at hand. He looked up hurriedly and saw Black Fury bearing down upon him. For a few seconds he looked at his enemy in astonishment, but when the vicious black colt wheeled by his side and lashed out with both heels at him he knew what was up. The vicious kick missed him narrowly, so he wheeled about and faced his adversary, watchful and on guard. The black colt retreated for fifty feet and stood looking at him belligerently. Then he reared upon his hind legs and began pawing the air like a windmill and walking toward Dapple Dandy, his lips drawn back, showing his white teeth.

This is a common antic among infuriated stallions of full size, but is rarely seen in acolt. The sight was enough for Dapple Dandy. He had never seen a horse walk on his hind legs before, and did not even dream that they could do it. This strange feat, together with the savage looks of Black Fury, filled him with terror, and he galloped frantically toward home. The black imp followed as far as the moors, but, as he was not so finely built as his rival, he was soon left behind.

The children saw their favorite come galloping madly toward the house, and ran out to see what was the matter. He was evidently much disturbed, for his flanks quivered and he trembled as though cold. At first they could not discover the cause of the fright, but they finally made out Black Fury peering down over a distant boulder at them, and they knew what was the matter. So they petted Sir Wilton and told him that he was a dear colt and that they hated Black Fury. But as Mr. Pederson had told them to drive the new colt back to the pasture whenever they saw him with the sheep, they were obliged to drive him back to his enemy.

After that he was always on the watch for the imp, and he usually fled at the first sight of him. Things went on until one day Black Fury cornered him between two steep banks and charged full speed.

Poor Sir Wilton could not run, so he wheeled and stood with his heels waiting for the tormentor, while he looked back over his shoulder so that he would know when to kick. The belligerent Blackie had not expected this move, so he galloped full upon Dapple Dandy, who lashed out at just the right time and caught him squarely on the chest.

This was the first punishment that he had received at the hands, or, rather, the heels of Sir Wilton. It made him less sure of himself and more cautious, and it gave Sir Wilton confidence. It taught him that he, too, could fight. In fact a little of the Shetland-pony fighting spirit was born in him that day, so after that it was not so uneven a battle as it had been before.

He even went far into the hills with the rest of the wild Shetlands, most of whom were friendly enough. He was always on the watch for his enemy and they often had clashes, but these encounters were never so one-sided as they had been at first. Sometimes Sir Wilton tired of always being hounded and watched, and then he would turn and give his adversary a real battle. They would charge and retreat, kicking and biting at each other until one of them gave ground, and this was usually Dapple Dandy, for he was a thoroughbred. Breeding and luxury had taken something of the island fire out of him, so he was not really a match for his hardier kinsman, because he did not like to fight as well as the other colt did. It was easier just to gallop away.

It was a very common thing for one of the colts to be lame for several days or to have an ugly bite upon the flank or shoulder. But the island farmers do not pay much attention to these rugged little horses, so Sir Wilton for most of the time had to fight his own battles and make the best of his rather hard lot.

Thus the short summer passed and the early autumn came. Dapple Dandy managed to keep himself in fair flesh, although not so good a browser as the native ponies. But when storms came and he had to paw away the snow it was quite different. Then, with the rest of the pony herd, he often went down to the seashore to paw in the snow for seaweed and moss. He now found that his life was just a long struggle to keep down the gnawing at his vitals, and also to keep warm.

His coat had been bred to grow short and not so thick as that of his wild cousins, so he minded the cold much more than they.

Mr. Pederson, seeing that he was not getting along very well, took pity on him and allowed him one meal a day of the black oats that he had so despised when he first came to the island. These objectionable oats he ate ravenously and was most grateful for them. He was also allowed the protection of the open shed. So he came home each night to sleep, and the children again saw much of him. Once more he received the petting and fondling that his horse heart yearned for.

Black Fury also came to the farm buildings to see what had become of his rival. When he again discovered him enjoying the petting of the children and the comforts of the open shed at night, for they always drove the black colt away, his wrath again mounted, but he could not vent it on Dapple Dandy now, for he was among friends. He went back to the hills and nursed his rage against the day when he should again come to grips with his hated rival.

So the winter passed and spring came again. Finally Sir Wilton was once more driven back to the pastures among the hills. Here he and Black Fury met often, and their encounters were more savage and of longer duration than they had ever been before, for both were older and heavier. About the middle of the summer Sir Wilton came limping to the farmhouse with a badly strained ligament, and was obliged to keep quiet for several weeks, but he finally went back to the hills and his tormentor. Thus the seasons came and went,—the short summers with their fleeting beauty, which seemed even more beautiful to the islanders because it was so transient, and the short spring and autumn and the cold, hard winters. Through it all Sir Wilton grew in stature and weight and also in beauty. It was finally admitted by all the breeders that he was the most beau- tiful and best set-up young stallion that had ever fed upon the islands.

Three years passed quickly by and Sir Wilton came to his fourth year. He had now reached his full height of twelve hands, or forty-eight inches, and his full weight, which was a little less than four hundred pounds. His head was beautiful in line. His eyes were large and lustrous. His coat was sleek as satin, and it shone when he had been brushed, as he sometimes was for inspection, until you could almost see your face in it. His mane and tail were long and flowing. Altogether, he was a wonderful little horse, one that a horse fancier would go many miles to see.

A year before he had gotten his first colt, which was a living picture of him, and now little Dapples was trotting about like a dog at the heels of one of the island mares. Sir Wilton had never been jealous of this colt, as some stallions are, but had seemed to take a great pride in him, for they often sniffed noses. Black Fury, on the other hand, probably recognized the hated aristocratic blood, and he tormented the colt just as he had done his sire. This led to several very sharp encounters between the stallions.

It was a bitter November twilight when Sir Wilton and Black Fury finally met in a gulch among the hills. The black devil had been following Sir Wilton for days, looking for just such a chance, but the latter did not know it. Even if he had, it is doubtful if he would have shunned him, for he had now come to his full stallion strength. Besides he owed the black tormentor a good beating for the way in which he had treated little Dapples.

Although it was only November, the landscape looked like midwinter. The snow was two feet deep on the ground and the wind was bitter cold. Sir Wilton should have gone down to the farmhouse where he usually spent the winter, but this day a fit of restlessness had seized him and he had wandered far into the hills. The black shadow had been following him all day like a pursuing fate.

Sir Wilton had trotted up a narrow arroyo, or gulch, to its head, looking for some spot where the wind might have swept away the snow so that he could find some feed. This gulch was a perfect pocket. Its walls on three sides were so steep that no horse could climb them.