One day my father announced that I was to ride one of the ponies at the forthcoming show at Christchurch, and we immediately began putting the pony into tip-top condition for the occasion. A little extra corn and boiled linseed were added to her diet, not to mentio a few raw eggs broken into her mash. She was groomed and exercised carfully every day, and
rubbed with a velvet pad until she gleamed. Her hooves were oiled and her harness polished.
She became high spirited and difficult with all the good food and extra attention, and by the time we got her on to the Show ground with all the crowds and other horses, and with the band playing close at hand, she was beside herself, and I found her impossible to control. My father tried to calm her down, but she flung him aside, and almost unseated me. My father's face hardened, and he took the riding whip and gave her the thrashing she she deserved – from that moment she behaved perfectly, and was sheer joy to ride.
She understood every slightest movement of my hands and knees, and responded smoothly and neatly, and presently I found myself in the final two for the “Best Girl Rider”. The Judges, finding difficulty in deciding between the two of us laughingly asked if there was anything else we could do to prove our capability.
“Yes”, I replied, “I can ride standing up”. And before anyone could stop me I sprang onto the saddle and cantered round the ring, to the enormous amusement of the crowd, and the embarrassment of my family.
However I was awarded the first prize, and was very pleased with myself, and quite impervious to the black looks I received from my sisters, and the muttered “Show off!” from John. But my father was pleased with me, and that in itself was a rare triumph.
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