Very still he stands, listening to the mayor and his honored guests say a word or two about mule and man, and how, together, they felled trees, planted cotton and tobacco and sugar, and made America the land of the free and the home of the brave. All the while the King’s ears pitch and fork at a rakish angle, and the sun sparks the rubies and diamonds in his crown. How the crowd cheers when the mayor ends his speech—“For 364 days the mule works for man, but on the 365th day man works for the mule. Long live King Mule!”
Tennessee is not alone in honoring the mule. At county fairs in Missouri, men with rulers go around measuring the “wingspread” of the show mules’ ears. One mule named Double Elastic held the record for some time. Her stretch was thirty-two inches from tip to tip.
Whence came the long-eared mule? Who is his sire and who his dam? He is a strange mixture, neither horse nor donkey but a combination of both. His mother is a horse mare and his father a donkey, and he inherits admirable qualities from each. From his mother he gets courage, speed, strength; and from his father, patience and sure-footedness and the ability to grow sleek on nothing but grass. He has his father’s head, too—the white nose, the donkey ears—and his lusty bray as well.
But his mule-mindedness, ah, this is strictly his own. Some men call it stubbornness; muleteers call it wisdom. They say the mule knows three times as much as the horse, and they count the ways. If his load is too heavy, he waits for you to lighten it. If he has put in enough hours for one day, he stages a strike. If the water in a creek is unfit to drink, he won’t touch a drop. If the weather is unbearably hot, he slows his pace, and no amount of prodding will hurry him. If his pasture is hilly, he eats uphill instead of down so he won’t have so far to bend! If he is climbing a steep hill, he stops midway of his own accord to take a breather; he doesn’t wait for man to whoa him.
Horses, on the other hand, have been known to work themselves into exhaustion. And if they run away, they sometimes dash blindly against a fence or plunge over a cliff. But the mule practices safety and moderation in all things. He never overeats, never drinks icy water when he himself is steaming, and if things don’t suit him, he doesn’t snuffle and whinner, he just goes to sleep as if it were not worth bothering about.
The climax of his day comes at sundown when he gets out of his collar and harness. Then, with great delight, he rolls and rolls and heehaws until his master feels like doing the same thing.
It was George Washington who made the mule popular in America. After the Revolutionary War he put his mind to the business of peace—to scientific farming. He had heard of the enormous Catalonian donkeys in Spain and of the fine work mules they sired. He wanted to introduce them into America because, as he put it, “their cheap keeping is much in their favor.” But the Spanish government had a law against exporting their jacks. When the King of Spain, however, heard that the General himself was interested, he felt that his country had been honored and he issued a royal order to send two of the finest jacks in the kingdom as a gift. One of them died aboard ship, but the other arrived at Mount Vernon in fine fettle and, on a summer morning, there he stood, right on the piazza of the mansion house!
General Washington was mightily impressed. “From him,” he said to the little gathering that had assembled, “I hope to secure a race of extraordinary goodness which will stock the country. He is indeed a Royal Gift, and henceforward that shall be his name.”
Within the next few years the President mated several of his mares to Royal Gift and got some strapping mules. They were so tough that he put them to work at an early age. Friends and neighbors shook their heads in amazement. How fat and sleek the mule kept in spite of his work! How he pulled and plowed and cultivated on the hottest days! They wanted mules, too. And so, before very long, the whole Virginia countryside was dotted with the long-eared sons and daughters of Royal Gift.
George Washington would be astounded and pleased if he could know that today the mule is more valuable than the horse; that is, his average price is higher. Isn’t this an incredible fact when one remembers that some race horses sell for tens of thousands of dollars? Another fact that might have caused the President to chuckle, and the King of Spain, too, is that American jacks have since been exported to Spain to improve their breed!
When mules die, they leave no children. None at all. The only purpose for which they are bred is work. And they don’t seem to object at all. In fact, even in Tennessee when the excitement and flag waving of Mule Day are over, the King Mule himself seems glad to be rid of his crown and to get on with his spring plowing.
Men of the South consider the mule indispensable. He seems part of their life, part of their landscape. And, when April comes in, a mule’s ears against the sky are as grand and glorious a sight as the dogwood and redbud in bloom!
The Routine of Happiness
A HORSE’S ACTIONS ARE BASED on habit. Variety may be the very spice of life for people, but for horses routine is their peculiar happiness. Eat. Sleep. Work. At the same time every day. Year in, year out. Time without end.
There was once a work horse that lived exactly by the clock. His name was Charley and he furnished the power that operated the presses for a printing house. Every morning, just as the factory whistle blew, Charley was hooked to a pole connected to a shaft. And before the blast had pinched off in silence, Charley was at work, walking around in a circle, turning the shaft which had a big wheel at the top of it. By means of a pulley the big wheel was connected to a smaller wheel, and as Charley turned the shaft, the pulleys inside the factory went around and around and worked the printing presses.
All morning and all afternoon, too, Charley walked in this perpetual circle, hearing nothing but the flump of his footsteps and the hum of the presses; seeing nothing but his path and the sparrows that bathed in the dust he made.
Charley liked the sameness of his days. They were not drear to him at all. He knew what to expect and when. He could have kicked over the traces and run away to green fields, but such a thought never occurred to him. And Mr. Dooley, the happy Irishman who took care of him, knew he could be trusted. After starting Charley off, Mr. Dooley went about his own business and did not show up again until noontime, when he came striding along with a nosebag of rustling oats.
Afternoons were just like the mornings. Walk around and around. Turn the shaft. Swish flies. Sweat and dry off. Keep walking. Walk the sun out of sight.
When the evening whistle blew, Charley stopped as if a stone wall had suddenly risen before him. This was a pleasant time of day—Mr. Dooley unhooking him and making little confidential remarks, and men and boys whistling down the stairs and out of the building. One always stopped to give Charley a slice of apple. The fragrant juices tickled his senses; he could smell the apple long before he saw it. Then crunch, crunch, and the sweet juice slaking his thirst. Life was good. It had a pleasant pattern.
Year after year, winter and summer, rain or shine, Charley ran the presses until at last he grew old in service. His coat, which had once been smoky dark, was now white, and his mane and tail were sprinkled with gray.
One spring morning Charley’s orderly world suddenly went topsy-turvy. A shining black horse was brought into his stable and cross-tied almost in front of his stall. And Mr. Dooley was putting Charley’s collar over the young black’s neck and Charley’s bit into the young one’s mouth!
Instinctively Charley disliked the newcomer. He broke into a snort and pinned his ears back. Mr. Dooley went right on with his buckling. “By the hole in the seat of me pants,” he laughed, “I do believe the old crayture’s jealous already!”
Then the young horse was backed between the shafts of a wagon and led out into the morning. And, before Charley knew what was happening, he was being tied to the tailboard. He tugged at his halter, trying to turn toward his familiar circle, but the wagon was starting up and he was being pulled out onto a hard dirt road. Past his factory. Past other factories. Past houses. Across a railroad track. And always he could hear
the hoofbeats ahead.
Strange, new smells began mingling in his nostrils—plowed earth and apple blossoms. Suddenly the hoofbeats ahead came to a stop, and Mr. Dooley was at his side, untying him, now leading him through an open gate into a green pasture. Then one by one his shoes were pulled off and even his halter was taken away.
“ ’Tis little I can think to say, Charley,” Mr. Dooley murmured. “Ye see, it’s like this way, Charley; ye’ve earned a rest. The grass and trees is buddin’, and it’s a sootherin’ piece o’ sod ye got here. Ain’t it, Charley? Aye. And I’ll come back every once and again to give ye a whiskin’ over and an apple out of me own wages, and may the Lord preserve ye, Charley.”
Without a backward look Mr. Dooley gathered up the horseshoes, put the halter over his arm, and went out the gate. He clucked to the young horse, and the wagon went creaking on its way.
Charley began to tremble violently. He threw back his head and sent out a great cry of loneliness. He ran along the fence line ahead of the black horse, whinnying him to stop, imploring him. But the young horse did not hesitate. He trotted briskly along, step by step, until the sound of his hoofs and the creaking of the wheels grew fainter and fainter and then died away.
For a long time Charley stood in the corner as if he were picketed to the earth. He had a kind of naked feeling without his shoes and his harness, and he felt a nothingness inside. There was no one in sight but an old hound dog, sniffing along a hedgerow, bent on bird business. Slowly Charley footed his way toward the dog and, as he walked, he felt a wet coolness under his feet. He pawed the grass, stirring up a delicate scent. He tore a mouthful and found it tender and succulent. He forgot about the dog and fell to grazing; and he grazed the morning away.
Toward noon the bright sun beat down on his back and a stupor came over him. He sought the shade of a big cottonwood tree and there, with a sweet quid of grass in his mouth, he slept standing, dozing the afternoon away.
For a few days he enjoyed his barefoot freedom. Then, gradually, a great longing filled him. He missed his old way of life. Morning came and no one said, “Move over with ye, Charley. Och! But it’s a grand smiling day!”
And there was no familiar path to tread, and no nosebag at noon or apple at night. Only earth and sky, and between them an aching emptiness. The grass seemed to lose its flavor, and Charley ate less and less of it. He grew gaunt and his underlip hung loose, quivering like that of an old man who cries easily. Mr. Dooley came to visit him and shook his head. “We got the poor crayture here just in time all right,” he said to no one at all. “His work days is done for sure.”
And then one early morning the wind blew across the town, picking up smells and sounds on its way. The whistle of Charley’s old factory came to him faintly.
The sound pulled a trigger in his mind and fired him to act. Resolutely he headed for the cottonwood tree and began walking around it, buckling down to his work as if he were pulling the pole that turned the shaft. Around and around he went. Trudge and turn. Keep walking. Swish flies. Sweat and dry off. Trample the grass. Bend it down. Wear it down. Wear the path bare. Keep going!
All morning he traveled the circle. At noon the faraway whistle stopped him. He left his tree and grazed his way toward the creek. There he rolled in the mud along its banks, first this way, then that. Afterward he stretched out in the sun and snoozed a bit until the afternoon whistle woke him.
Again the trigger in his mind! Struggling to his feet, he went back to his self-appointed work. All afternoon he wore the path deeper. By evening the wind had turned about and Charley could not hear the whistle, but his time sense told him when to stop. He quit work suddenly and began frisking around the pasture like a youngster let out of school. He waded in the creek and drank deep; then he splashed until the water spattered all over his belly. He felt good!
Now Charley knew what to do each day, and the hours ran together as smoothly as water flowing downhill. In time a great change came over him. He didn’t look like a colt exactly, nor did his gray hair turn black. But his happiness showed in so many ways—in the luster in his eye, in the spring of his step, in the round-barreled look of him! Growing old was not bad at all, so long as there was something to do. Charley had made his own work, and he was back in harness again—the good, comfortable harness of routine.
No Sugar, Thank You!
THE LITTLE COLT SNIFFED, AND the smell of morning tickled in his nose and the whirly wind stirred the whiskers in his ears. He tossed his head, snorting and squealing. It was good—morning and the wind and having his mother this close.
He kicked up to the sky and down to the earth, and with a wee flirt of his tail scampered across the meadow. In long easy strides his mother overtook him and now she is alongside, pacing him, keeping him steady on the trot, schooling him.
Big hoofs and little hoofs go winging along the grass, making fresh tracks in the dew. Only the fence line can stop them, and the mare slows, bunting her young one away from it. They stand for a moment to blow and to snort, but the wind teases them on again. They wheel and are off, galloping now, drinking the bracy air deep into their lungs, drinking up the morning.
Schooling—how easy it is! Trotting. Galloping. Using your tail as a rudder, kinking it around the curves. “You, young’un, keep away from that fence! Keep away or I’ll bunt you away!”
And danger signals, never to be forgotten. That day of the bulldog scare. The grinning beast, lunging, ready to grab at the colt’s throat, to hang on with his bulldog grip. But the mare’s neigh—short, sharp, shrill—crying more plainly than any words, “Danger! Come!” And the little colt bolting for his mother, feeling safe and unafraid in her shadow.
The mare teaches more than alarms. In flytime she hovers over her colt, whisking the biting insects away with her fly-switch tail. By and by the colt learns the trick of it, sidling up to her just so—head to tail—letting her shoo the bussing, whiny things away. A swish, and they’re gone.
If only mares could school humans, too! If only they could gentle humans in the kind and homely things to do. Small ways, folkways that horses like. Take the bit for example. Take it on a cold day. The icy feel of it. How would you like it thrust into your mouth—the cold steel on the warm tongue! Two minutes will warm it. Your hands or your breath can do it.
Do you like having your nose stroked? Most horses dislike it, too. Some will tolerate it, a few may enjoy it, but most of them jerk away in distaste, as if their dignity had been offended.
If you can’t resist the normal impulse of wanting to touch the horse’s velvety nose, offer him the flat of your hand. Let him come sniffing and scenting to you until the feelers of his muzzle tickle your palm. He may even lick the salt of your hand with his big washcloth tongue. In that little moment you have passed the test. You have been accepted.
To most horses the sudden tightening of the girth strap is like the pinching of a vise. Why make it sudden? Why not do it by notches? Easy on the first pull, proffering a wisp of hay to keep his mind and his grinders busy. Now check the bridle or the stirrups and then come back to the buckling. Another notch, another little handout of hay, and soon the girth is as snug as a hoop around a barrel. All this has been accomplished without ears flattened or teeth bared.
Have you seen riders, as they mount, fling their bodies into the saddle, coming down on the horse’s back like a sack of potatoes? It is enough to make him jump out of his hide. Some mounts do take a sudden lunge, almost unseating the clumsy rider.
A good horseman mounts lightly, easing himself into the saddle with no shock at all to the horse. Always he avoids startling the high-strung creature. In grooming, in stable care, in all his horse-keeping he works calmly, talks calmly, with never a hustle or bustle. A jerky, head-shy horse is often telltale evidence of an awkward master.
Ever try to walk or run with a stone in your shoe and with a load on your back besides? Horses get stone bruises and corns just as people do. Before and after you ride, remove any little ston
es imbedded in your horse’s feet. He’ll feel good, light and airy as any ballet dancer.
When the years pile up on your horse and his teeth wear down and his ribs begin to show, pamper him a little. Try grinding his oats each day and watch him clean up his feed. He’ll lose his gaunt look and someone’s bound to say, “Got a new horse there, haven’t you?”
About this matter of sugaring your horse—don’t, for his sake. A horse with a sweet tooth generally turns into a nipper, and sooner or later he is apt to bite the hand that sugars him. Then punishment must be dealt swiftly. One way to avoid the need for punishment is never to give your horse any sugar. If horses could school their masters, the wise ones would say, “Sugar? No, thank you! Save it for your guests who come to tea.”
Some trainers believe in breaking a colt, some in gentling him. Breaking is the quick way, gentling the sure way. A circus trainer once received a string of so-called well-broken horses, and at once he saw fear and hatred in their eyes. He might have refused to train them, but their distrust was a challenge.
Before teaching any tricks, he had to start from the beginning, trying to change their opinion of man. For days he took them into the ring during lesson time and just talked to them, letting his voice go up and down the scale as if he were chatting with old cronies. Gradually the horses began to gather around, forking their ears this way and that. “They seemed to like the sound of human voices,” the trainer said. “Just because the horse is a dumb animal is no reason for the trainer to be.”
Album of Horses Page 10
