‘His neck is broken,’ said my mother.’ I can’t understand way men are so fond of this sport. They quite often hurt themselves and ruin good horses, all for one hare that they could get more easily some other way. But we are only horses, and don’t know why men do these things.’
They carried the dead rider to our master’s house, and I heard afterwards that it was George Gordon, the only so of a local landowner, and a fine young man.
A man from the village came to look at the black horse on the grass. The animal was in great pain and one of his legs was broken. The man began to feel the horse all over, then he shook his head. Someone ran to our master’s house and came back with a gun. Soon after, there was a loud bang and a terrible cry, then all was still. The black horse did not move again.
My mother was very unhappy. ‘I’ve known that horse for years,’ she said. ‘His name was Rob Roy. He was a good brave horse.’ She never went near that end of the field again.
Not many days after, we heard the church bell and saw a long, strange black carriage, pulled by black horses. They were taking the body of young George Gordon to the churchyard to bury him. He would never ride again. I never knew what they did with Rob, but it was all for one little hare.
‘His neck is broken,’ said my mother.’ I can’t understand way men are so fond of this sport. They quite often hurt themselves and ruin good horses, all for one hare that they could get more easily some other way. But we are only horses, and don’t know why men do these things.’
They carried the dead rider to our master’s house, and I heard afterwards that it was George Gordon, the only so of a local landowner, and a fine young man.
A man from the village came to look at the black horse on the grass. The animal was in great pain and one of his legs was broken. The man began to feel the horse all over, then he shook his head. Someone ran to our master’s house and came back with a gun. Soon after, there was a loud bang and a terrible cry, then all was still. The black horse did not move again.
My mother was very unhappy. ‘I’ve known that horse for years,’ she said. ‘His name was Rob Roy. He was a good brave horse.’ She never went near that end of the field again.
Not many days after, we heard the church bell and saw a long, strange black carriage, pulled by black horses. They were taking the body of young George Gordon to the churchyard to bury him. He would never ride again. I never knew what they did with Rob, but it was all for one little hare.
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