Poor Ginger
Winter came early and it was bitterly cold with lots of snow and sleet. The streets were slippery and we horses had a hard time. Pulling a cab in the frost or snow is very difficult as there is no grip on the road. We were scared of falling and we also hated standing around in the wet for a fare.
One day I was waiting outside the park when a shabby old cart drove up beside mine. The horse pulling it was an old worn-out chestnut with a badly kept coat, and bones that showed through. I was eating hay, and the wind blew a wisp towards the horse. She reached out her thin neck, ate it hungrily, then looked around for more.
She was a sad sight and I felt sorry for her. She reminded me of someone, and I was wondering who when the horse suddenly cried out, ‘Black Beauty? Are you Black Beauty?’
‘Ginger!’ I gasped.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. Surely this thin, worn-out horse was not my beautiful friend, Ginger! Her once arched neck was straight. Her glossy coat had turned lank and dull. Her slender legs were swollen and bruised. Worse still was Ginger’s face. Once it had been pretty. Now it was sad and full of pain.
Slowly, between lots of coughing, Ginger told me her sorry story. ‘After a year of being left to graze at Earlshall, I was fit enough to be sold. At first I was fine but my new owner galloped me too hard and my old injury came back. I was rested, then sold again.
This happened many times until I was bought by a man who hires out horses and cabs to cab drivers. This man was furious when he found out how unfit I was. He said the only way to make his money back on me was to work me to death. He does too!
Seven days a week I work and my driver whips me badly. I wish I were dead, Black Beauty. How I wish it! I wish to drop down dead and end my pain.’
‘Ginger,’ I cried, touching her with my nose. ‘Please don’t say that.’
‘Black Beauty,’ said Ginger quietly. ‘You are my best friend ever.’
Ginger’s driver came then. He tugged her roughly on her mouth and drove her away. Heartbroken, I stared after her. Ginger was my best friend too. How I wished I could help her.
Not long after that a cart passed me carrying a dead horse. Its head hung out of the back. Its eyes were sad and sunken. It was so dreadful that I couldn’t look. I turned away. But as I did Isaw the horse had a streak of white down its forehead. Ginger! Was it her? I hoped it was, for then her troubles would be over.
Poor Ginger. If her owners had been kinder she would never have suffered so badly.