A white horse in Saarbrücken, Germany.
A white horse pictured in Saarbrücken, capital and largest city of the state of Saarland, Germany, close to the border with France. Young Nathaniel’s account in his diary of an interview with an old working horse near his hometown of Salem, Massachusetts, is extraordinarily mature and lively for a writer of any age. His uncle Raymond gave Nathaniel the diary “with the advice that he write out his thoughts, some every day, in as good words as he can, upon any and all subjects, as it is one of the best means of his securing for mature years, command of thought and language”. Uncle Raymond’s plan turned out rather well.
Part 1 of 3
I FELT sorry, and nobody being near, thought it best to have a talk with the old nag, and said, “Good-morning, Mr Horse, how are you today?”
“Good-morning, youngster,” said he, just as plain as a horse can speak, and then said, “I am almost dead, and I wish I was quite. I am hungry, have had no breakfast, and must stand here tied by the head while they are grinding the corn, and until master drinks two or three glasses of rum at the store, and then drag him and the meal up the Ben Ham hill, and home, and am now so weak that I can hardly stand. Oh, dear, I am in a bad way,” and the old creature cried — I almost cried myself.
Just then the miller went downstairs to the meal trough. I heard his feet on the steps, and, not thinking much what I was doing, ran into the mill, and taking the four quart toll-dish nearly full of corn out of the hopper, carried it out and poured it into the trough before the horse, and placed the dish back before the miller came up from below.
Précis
In his daily diary, a young Nathaniel Hawthorne recalled how an underfed and mistreated horse had shared with him the sorrows of life under a hard master, and all but brought the boy to tears. As the heartless owner was deep inside the mill, Nathaniel seized his chance to steal some corn and pour it into the horse’s trough. (59 / 60 words)
Part Two
A horse eating dried dates near Tozeur, Tunisia.
A horse eating dried dates near Tozeur, Tunisia. Like the solemn-faced horse in Hawthorne’s tale, he had to contend with the bits in his mouth while eating.
When I got out, the horse was laughing, but he had to eat slowly, because the bits were in his mouth. I told him that I was sorry, but did not know how to take them out, and should not dare to, if I did, for his master might come out of the store suddenly and see what I was about. “Thank you,” said he, “a luncheon of corn with the bits in is much better than none. The worst of it is, I have to munch so slowly, that my master may come before I finish it, and thrash me for eating his corn, and you for your kindness.” I sat down on a stone out of the wind, and waited in trouble, for fear that the miller or the owner of the corn would come and find out what I had done.
At last the horse winked and stuck out his upper lip ever so far, and then said, “The last kernel is gone;” then he laughed a little, then shook one ear, then the other, then shut his eyes as if to take a nap. I jumped up and said, “How do you feel, old fellow; any better?” He opened his eyes, and, looking at me kindly, answered, “Very much,” and then blew his nose exceedingly loud, but he did not wipe it; perhaps he had no wiper.
Précis
While Nathaniel listened anxiously for any sound of the owner’s return from the depths of the mill, the poor old nag ate the stolen meal as fast as his bits would allow. At last the corn was gone, all was still quiet, and the contented horse thanked Nathaniel gently for his kindness. (52 / 60 words)
Part Three
Whippletrees in the Westfälisches Freilichtmuseum in Detmold, Germany.
Whippletrees in the Westfälisches Freilichtmuseum in Detmold, Germany. Whippletrees (or whiffletrees, as Hawthorne calls them here) are bars that form part of the harness that allows a horse to draw a carriage or some other kind of load. Hawthorne’s weary nag, so the young writer tells us in his diary, had tried to lash out at his cruel master, but his feet had reached no higher than these low bars.
I then asked if his master whipped him. “Not much lately; he used to, till my hide got hardened, but now he has a white oak goad stick with an iron brad in its end, with which he jabs my hind quarters, and hurts me awfully.” I asked why he did not kick up, and knock his tormentor out of the wagon. “I did try to once,” said he, “but am old and was weak, and could only get my heels high enough to break the whiffletree, and besides lost my balance and fell down flat. Master then jumped down, and, getting a cudgel, struck me over the head, and I thought my troubles were over. This happened just before Mr Ben Ham’s house, and I should have been finished, and ready for the crows, if he had not stepped out and told master not to strike again, if he did he would shake his liver out. That saved my life; but I was sorry, though Mr Ham meant good.” The goad with the iron brad was in the wagon, and, snatching it out, I struck the end against a stone, and the stabber flew into the mill-pond. “There,” says I, “old colt,” as I threw the goad back into the wagon, “he won’t harpoon you again with that iron.” The poor old brute knew what I said well enough, for I looked him in the eye and spoke horse language.
Précis
Nathaniel now learnt that years of thrashing had made the horse’s hide so thick that his master used a metal spike: he was too old and weak, it seemed, to rebel, and even regretted that a kind bystander had saved him from being killed. At this, Nathaniel indignantly broke the prod, jerking the sharp point into a pond. (58 / 60 words)
