Dapples of the Circus/Chapter 1
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.