-15- 



brilliant cob or pony can go anywhere a horse can 

 go, and often where he cannot. 



I remember some years ago a grey polo ponj , 

 ridden by a lady in the Grafton country. It is 

 not a country I should pick out as most suitable 

 to a pony, yet that little grey jumped it to per- 

 fection. Early or late in the day, wherever that 

 lady's pilot went, the grey went. The pilot, I 

 may add, was a very hard-riding husband mounted 

 on big and also very good hunters. 



I have often heard it objected that a cob makes 

 the fences look big, but, as long as they are jumped 

 safely and well, I never could see that it mattered 

 what they looked like. And if you do get a fall, 

 it is much pleasanter - or, at least, less unpleas- 

 ant - to have a light little one on you than a heavy 

 big one. I have owned several really brilliant lit- 

 tle ones, and seen sport well in many different coun- 

 tries on them. One of the best I bought in an odd 

 way. I rode her with hounds one day in Ireland. 

 She was so wild I thought she would never do for hunt- 

 ing. Whether it was to practise her jumping or to 

 try to jump me off I know not, but she insisted on 

 taking wild bounds into the air, so violent and sud- 

 den that I could not stop her. One of her jumps 

 took her more or less over another horse's quarters, 

 and I heard the rider remark to a friend: "He had 

 me lepped entirely, and he changed on my head." 

 However, he received my apologies most kindly. 

 They are more forbearing towards young horses in 

 Ireland than in England; there I might have been 

 told that if I could not ride my horse I had better 

 take it home. I decided not to buy her, as I thought 

 that when full of good oats she would be unrideable. 

 Later I was told she was perfectly quiet in harness, 

 and as I wanted a trapper and she had the merit of 

 being cheap, I bought her. She was fairly right in 

 harness, and I used to drive my mother in a very low 

 pony phaeton with her, as it was the only kind of 

 trap my mother could then get into, and to the last 

 she had iron nerves. The mare, if checked or kept 

 standing, did rather twist and turn the long phae ton 

 about, until there was some excuse for a friend's 

 remark that "she looked like an eel on a night-line"; 



