My father often now talked of returning to England for good and taking us all with him – however it wouldn't be yet, and time went on. He had brought a motor car out to New Zealand from England, and they were still a sufficiently uncommon sight on the country roads to cause some excitement amongst the schoolchildren.
It was a big, unwieldy machine, with high wheels, and massive brass acetylene lamps that flared and sizzled in the most alarming way. The noisy engine frightened all the animals, and we used to try and make our ponies approach the car when the engine was running. With a great deal of coaxing and thumping with our heels, we could perhaps get them within ten or twelve yards of it, then with a frightened snort they would spin round, and gallop off with mane and tail flying. It was weeks before they got accustomed to it.
My father used to buy his horses and ponies while they were still unbroken, or breed them from his own stock, but he always broke them in himself. He loved his horses, but it was his policy to sell all his surplus stock, so many of his beautifully schooled horses had to go. He hated to part with them, and I think when it came to the point, it was the one time when he could have put business second to inclination.
One day he had a young pony on a long rope in the yard, that had never been handled until it was brought to the farm from the paddock a few days before. Six of us were sitting, silent and still, on the top rail of the fence, watching. He was the prettiest pony I have ever seen, and he fought savagely for his freedom. He reared and plunged, and lashed out viciously; he tore at the rope with his teeth, and my father fought back at the other end of the rope.
Gradually the fire began to go out of the pony and he stood still, trembling, his proud little head high, and his eyes wide and bright. My heart beat faster and my hands were damp; I felt terribly excited as I settled more firmly on the fence.
My father talked quietly to him, shortening the length of the rope between them as he did so; the pony looked quickly to left and right, backed a little, and then stood still again. Soon my father was gently rubbing his shoulder, and then his neck and head.
He placed a small saddle on the quivering pony's back, and took it off again many times, and the pony stood still. For several days this went on, and the man became the master in the end.
Then, on the sixth day, may father said without raising his voice,
“Come along one of you, and get up.”
Nobody moved.
“Did you hear me?”
The cold note of authority was there, but he never took his eyes off the pony.
“Which ever of you rides him today shall have him for her own.”
Still for a moment no-one stirred. Then Gillian slowly climbed down from the fence, and walked across to my father. He said nothing, but still holding the rope, he helped her up.
For a few moments nothing happened, then the pony seemed to go mad! He gave a shrill squeal, threw his weight on the rope, and by every conceivable means tried to dislodge the burden
from his back. But he could not. She clung tightly with hands and legs, and somehow managed to stay on, her face white. Suddenly he bucked, reared high in the air, and with a sickening thud, landed on top of Jill. By some miracle she was not killed, though her mouth was bleeding.
As soon as they were both on their feet she silently remounted, and there on his back she remained until the pony once more stood still.
We, like five magpies on the fence, were speechless and more than a little frightened. Gradually the little animal became quiet and gentle, and after a few weeks, Jill could do anything with him. She called him Otto – perhaps out of regard for her German music master – and he became her most beloved treasure.
One rainy season when my father was away from home at a sale, it became necessary for a friend's cattle to be moved across the river and my father offered to do it for him. He had done it many times before, but this time it was near the river mouth, and the current in the flood-water was running strongly.
As the cattle swam they began to turn downstream, towards the sea – his only chance of saving them was to swim his horse below them, and try to turn them against the current. This he did to his peril, shouting and lashing at the cattle with his long stock whip. The danger of his being over-run by the cattle in their fear and confusion was very great, but little by little he edged them round and landed them safely.
I well remember the first time I swam my pony across a flooded river – my father at my side, swimming with his arm across the saddle of his own horse. In my imagination I can still feel the water rising cold about my legs, and the strange thrilling sensation when the pony began to swim, his head thrust forward, and nostrils distended. I could feel the ripple of his body as he thrashed through the water. I remember too how on gaining the opposite bank he almost unseated me when he vigorously shook himself free of water!
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