146 A HOMING HORSE 



visit to us, a little boy of seven from town and per- 

 fectly ignorant of country things, ran out, and seeing 

 Moro standing there with his long tail almost touching 

 the ground, he went to it and, twisting his little hands 

 into the hair, began swinging himself to and fro. The 

 moment I caught sight of him I thought it was all 

 over with the child, for Moro was in a passion, tossing 

 his head and stamping on the ground— in another 

 moment the child's brains would be dashed out! 

 I yelled at him, and loosing his hold he came to me 

 unhurt. Everyone said it was a miracle — it was 

 Providence that saved the child's life. It was, I think, 

 the animal's intelligence, his knowledge that it was 

 an innocent child and not a grown-up that was taking 

 this liberty with him, which restrained his impulse 

 to strike. 



The one thing about Moro which comes properly 

 into the subject I am writing about was his home 

 instinct. Although he became reconciled to his new 

 surroundings and attached to the horses he lived and 

 grazed with, whenever we had a long spell of cold 

 windy and rainy weather in winter — always a time 

 of intense discomfort to horses living on the flat open 

 unsheltered plain where not a tree was growing — 

 Moro would disappear. Then, as a rule, after a week 

 or two there would be a message from our distant 

 gaucho friends to inform me that Moro had turned 

 up at their place, and that he would be sent as soon 

 as anyone of the estancia had occasion to travel our 

 way. On his return it was not necessary to collar 

 him to another horse: he was always pleased to be 



