"What did you do, Merrylegs?" I asked him.

"You threw the children off!" I sald. "Oh, no! Did you throw Miss Flora or Miss Jessie?"

"No, of course not! I'm quiet and careful with them, and with the little ones. I'm the best friend and riding teacher those children have. It's not them, it's the boys," he said. "The other children rode me for nearly two hours, then the boys rode me, one after the other, for an hour, hitting me with a stick. I didn't get annoyed but I did get tired, so I stopped once or twice to let them know. But boys think a horse is like a machine and can go on as long and as fast as they want it to. They never think that we get tired. As one was whipping me, I stood up on my back legs and he fell off. He got on again and I did the same. Then the other boy tried and I put him down on the grass. They're not bad boys, and don't mean to be cruel, but they have to learn."

Aneighbour of the Gordons', Mr Blomefield, had a large family of boys and girls who often came to play with Miss Jessie and Miss Flora. One of the girls was the same age as Miss Jessie, two of the boys were older, and there were several little ones. Whenever they came, the children loved to ride Merrylegs.

One afternoon when they were visiting, James brought Merrylegs in and said, "Now, behave yourself."

"Those young people didn't seem to know whell I was tired," he said, "so I just threw them off backwards. It was the only thing they could understand."

"I know you would," said Merrylegs. "But they expect me to look after those children, and they expect me to be good-tempered, and I will be. You never had a place where they were kind to you, Ginger, and I'm sorry for you. But good places make good horses, and I wouldn't make our people angry for anything! If I started kicking people, they would very quickly sell me, perhaps to someone cruel. I hope that never happens."

"When they told James, he was angry to see those big sticks and told the boys not to use them again."

"I would give those boys a good kick," said Ginger.

"How terrible!" I said.

I often wondered why Sir Oliver, the oldest horse in the stable, had so short a tall -- only about twenty centimetres long -- and one day I asked him, "Did you have an accident?"

"It was no accident!" he said, angrily. "My long and beautiful tail was cut off when I was a young horse. At that time, some owners thought it was fashionable!"

"Yes, terrible and cruel," said Sir Oliver. "Now I can never brush the flies off my sides or back legs, and all because of fashion. Some owners cut off the tails of their dogs to make them look brave, or cut their pretty little ears to make them look fashionable. They don't cut off the ends of their children's ears, do they? Why do they think it's all right to do these things to their animals?"

"Sawyer!" shouted my master.

The man looked up. He was a builder who often came to the Park to do work. "He's too fond of going his own way!" he told my master. "He's not supposed to turn in through your gates; the road is straight on."

Mr Gordon was never cruel, and he would not stand by and watch others be cruel to animals. We were riding home one morning when we saw a big man driving towards us in a small carriage, pulled by a beautiful little pony. As he got to the Park gates, the pony turned towards them. Without warning, the man pulled the pony's head round so roughly that the little animal almost fell over. Then he began to whip the pony, angrily. The animal tried to move forward, but the man held it back and continued to whip it.

"You often drive that pony to my house," said my master. "It only shows that the horse is intelligent and remembers these things. How could he know you weren't going there today? I've never seen a horse beaten so cruelly or with so much anger. What will people think of you, Sawyer? As well as hurting the horse, you hurt your own good name -- do you want people to think of you as a cruel, bad-tempered man?"

We went home slowly, and I could tell by his voice that the master was unhappy at what we had seen.