The Horse, as Comrade and Friend 



things — grass and flowers, trees, sky. He has 

 rested quite still where you placed him, with 

 those long legs half tucked under him — and 

 they are so dreadfully long, and his knees so 

 workmanUke and big. A foal seems all legs, 

 as if some three sizes too big had been allotted 

 to him in error. Wait and see, they are his 

 business ends, and in that long while ago it 

 was the foals, who could gallop, survived. 



He licks his Ups and opens his mouth and 

 makes little jerks with his neck, and now he 

 puts one foreleg out. It is not yet a full ten 

 minutes that the little horse has been born, and 

 yet, already he is anxious to rise. He puts the 

 other foreleg out and makes his first effort to 

 get up. He slips on those padded feet, and, 

 in the excitement of the tumble, utters his 

 first little cry. It is almost like the bleat of a 

 lamb ; but it penetrates the poor fogged brain 

 of the mother, and instantly she is awake, ears 

 forward, eyes straining to see him, and she 

 responds with a faint little neigh. She tries 

 to rise, but is too weak — all the strength has 

 gone out of her, and she falls back. The foal 

 looks round and stretches his little face to her, 

 and again that little bleat. You push him 

 forward, so that she can just touch and smell 

 him. A little further still. She is content, 

 and, still lying down, just licks him with the 

 tip of her tongue, her eyes closing again out of 

 pure weakness. But only for a moment. 



O 197 



