THE HORSE THAT ONCE-

Bay of Plenty Beacon, Volume 2, Issue 247, 9 December 1940, Page 8

THE HORSE THAT ONCE-

NOT SEEN IN THE TOWN OLD DOBBIN AND THE CUP WINNERS "A liorsc! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!" So said a king in one ol Shakespear's plays. There was not a horse to be seen,, so he lost this kingdom and his life. ; You would lose your kingdom., your patience or your bet too if you looked for a horsei in the streets of Wliakatane Borough at most times of the week. But here's a health to all the horses we used" to know about the town. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty years ago. These thoughts -were prompted by seeing a drover mounted on a hack in Commerce Street. He seem-i ed out of his element in this age of bowsers and cars. Yet one cannot escape hearing and reading about horses, what with the Melbourne Cup, the New Zealand Cup, and all sorts of lesser cups being won and lost with the assistance of the racing news and radio commen-

tarics. This Unkind World. Alas, it is an unkind world, this world of ours, both for men and horses! One human being is handed the Melbourne Cup and pockets cheque for £10,000 or so, while the remaining wondering millions pay their two-pcnces for the privilege of seeing his portrait in the newspaper, which is hardly as comforting as fixing a twopenny .stamp on a receipt for that big cheque. Then there is the individual'who in some more or less mysterious fashion holds a piece of paper which entitles him to untold, and oXt exaggerated thousands in some Australian "consultation," commonly referred to cryptically as "Tatts," while countless tens of thousands of fellow mortals look once, twice, many times —in vain to scan something to their advantage in mysterious documents that in happier times were such a popular feature of the mail from across the T'asman. "We can't all be winners!" says the cheerful man in the street as lie reassures himself that he is not one of the select 'band of lucky ones. Perhaps it will be his turn next time, he thinks, as he pays up hte shilling for the enrichment of the winner of the local sweep. Perhaps! But poor old Dobbin standing out there with his head turned 'away from the rain will never share in the glamour and the gold of Cup Days. A few' spindle-legged thoroughbreds; will continue to gallop in varying order past numerous win ning posts, and have their portraits and those of their human associates on the pages of every newspaper. For old Dobbin there is only a future of unremitting toil, broken perhaps by a spell when humans are away holiday-making.

The Equine Social Scale. Not that it is necessary to draw the striking contrast between a Melbourne Cup winner and Old Dobbin. There are countless grades and strata in the equine social scaled just as there are among mankind the poor and the verj r poor, and the rich and the multi-miliionaires. For instance there in the towns there used to be the mounted constable's horse which had what must be regarded as a "soft job in the Government." It was in splendid condition, thanks to a generous ration of chaff, which the taxjjayer provided, and her most arduous duties were an occasional appearance at a race meeting, where there was a little work to be done in shepherding people off the course.

Yet one could not help feeling sorry for the policeman's mare. She was lonely; she had to spend all her time in a little paddock. There she' was to be seen any day and all day, standing motionless by the road fence, digesting the last chaff meal, and looking sadly at passers-by. A handful of roadside grass from 1 a kindly child broke the monotony, and now and then an occasional baker's horse trotted past, but there is not another horse within neigh of this well-fed exile. Lower down in the scale are the thin-looking animals in city hawkers' carts that may be seen greedily nibbling the roadside grass while the man in charge is soliciting empty bottles or disposing of.vegetables. What wouldn't the hawkers' ponies give for a comfortable job in the police force! In former years there used to be plenty of massive draught horses that "waited patiently while their lorries were being loaded and unload ! (Continued at foot of next column)

Ed about the town. Perhaps they used to look down wearily at the hard roads and pine for the springy turf of distant green fields and the freedom from rein and trace. But men must work and horses are pressed into the service of complex civilisation, seme to pull the topdresser, and others to enjoy the doubtful pleasure of being whipped past the post amid a thunder of galloping hoofs.