Summer Pony Read online

  To my father, Charles E. Slaughter, for the fence post holes

  he dug, for the little red barn he built, and especially for

  his many hours of patience and understanding, this book is

  affectionately and gratefully dedicated.

  —J.S.D.

  For Whitney

  —R.S.

  It was a gloomy gray day in March. A threat of late snow was in the air when the station wagon bumped to a stop by the shabby barn.

  Ginny was shivering. She got out of the car and waited for her mother. Somehow, everything here seemed awful and unreal. This was the day her dreams were supposed to come true. She was going to have a pony, a pony of her own, for the whole summer ahead.

  Plans had already been made with the owner of the Sweetbriar Pony Farm. She could choose any one of all the ponies in his stable. But something was wrong. They must have made a wrong turn off the main road. Nobody could keep ponies in a place like this.

  She could feel the cold mud oozing through her sneakers. Her mother came up beside her. She wore a hopeful look on her face. She was trying to make the best of a bad situation. “Here we are, dear. I wonder where Mr. Dobbs can be?”

  The ponies of her dreams flashed through Ginny's mind. Which would she choose? A bright red-gold chestnut with a cream mane and tail? A black pony, with slim legs and a beautiful head like an Arabian? Or maybe a gray, the color of smoke? Shining coats and shining eyes, sleek and beautiful. They were waiting for her to choose—but not here. Certainly not here.

  “Mother,” Ginny whispered. “This can't be right. I never saw such an awful place.” But Ginny knew, even as she stumbled after her mother. This was, indeed, the Sweetbriar Pony Farm. A faded sign saying so hung on the side of the sagging barn. Three little ponies stood in a nearby field behind a rusty wire fence. Their backs were humped up against the cold wind. A wheelbarrow with a broken handle was tipped over. It lay next to a soggy pile of manure close to the barn. There were hoof-prints everywhere in the mud around them.

  A narrow door opened with a squeal of hinges. A tall, thin man came out. “Thought I heard a car,” he said. “You must be Mrs. Anderson. Are you ready to choose a pony for the summer? Morning, miss. You must be the lucky little girl.”

  He stood back and waved toward the open door. “Come in. Come in and meet the ponies. Twenty of them, ma'am. All for you to choose from. Every one of them a pet. They're sound as a bell, safe for any child to ride and drive.”

  “Yuck!” said Ginny under her breath. She followed her mother through the narrow door into the dimness of the long barn.

  Some daylight struggled through the dirty windows. Two or three dim lightbulbs burned halfheartedly down the aisle. Here were no shining ponies waiting for her. No ponies turned their heads toward her as she came through the door. Instead, there were long rows of narrow stalls. The stalls were divided by broken boards. They were held together with pieces of wire. Inside stood odds and ends of ponies of all possible shapes and sizes. Most of them were very small. All of them were thin and shabby.

  “My daughter has not had much riding experience,” Ginny heard her mother say. “Just a few years away at a camp where they taught riding once a week. But she has always dreamed of having a pony of her own. So instead of sending her back to camp, we thought we would rent a pony for the summer. We'll keep it at home—as a birthday present. …”

  Mr. Dobbs mumbled an answer, but Ginny didn't hear. She moved down the narrow aisle between the stalls. She looked in shock at the ponies on either side.

  “You poor little things,” Ginny whispered. The ponies turned their heads to watch her. The air was stale and sour and heavy. It smelled of dirty ponies and dirty stalls. Ginny wanted to cry. She wanted to run outside and forget this awful place. She wanted to go and find the white-fenced pony farm that she had pictured. It must exist somewhere, and there her dream ponies must be waiting.

  But she knew at the same time that only this was real. Her parents had said plans had been made. Someone had suggested Mr. Dobbs. How could this be? So her mother and father, who knew nothing about horses and ponies, had somehow found the Sweetbriar Pony Farm. She had to choose a pony here. Or no pony … anywhere … at all.

  Ginny took a long, shaky breath. She went on down the aisle. Most of the ponies were little Shetlands. They were much too small to carry her. She could make out a taller chestnut with a white blaze on his face. He was big enough to carry her. She stopped hopefully near his stall. She admired the pony's beautiful head and large, dark eyes.

  Mr. Dobbs came hurrying up beside her. “I don't think this one will do, miss. He's a young stallion. He's a little spirited for a new rider.” Ginny drew back. The chestnut flattened his ears against his head. Then he snapped at Mr. Dobbs with his lips drawn back. His teeth were showing.

  “That one would take your arm off,” muttered Mr. Dobbs. “Don't know why I keep him. But I love them all, you know.” He smiled at Ginny's mother. Ginny walked away angrily. If he loved his ponies all that much, why didn't he take better care of them?

  There was one other pony down at the far end of the barn. Ginny could just barely see it, but it at least looked tall enough for her. Mr.

  Dobbs dashed past her with a rope in his hand. “I'll show you a good one,” he said. “This is the best in the barn. Very gentle,” he said to Ginny's mother. She was still looking a little shaken by the bad-tempered chestnut. “And this one is just the right size for your little girl.” He rushed into the stall and backed the pony out.

  Ginny's heart sank. This was her last chance. It was the only other pony of the right size left in this awful barn. It was a sad sight. The pony was so many colors that Ginny couldn't make out what they all were. Ginny was disappointed.

  Mr. Dobbs shoved a bridle on the pony's head and led it outside. It was a mare, Ginny discovered. Under the dirt and grime she was white with large patches of dark brown spots. Her tail was black. Her mane was white. And the forelock that almost covered her eyes was as black as her tail. Ginny went up to the pony. She offered her a lump of sugar from the pocket of her blue jeans. The pony took it and ate it slowly. Then she turned her head to look at the little Shetlands in the field behind the fence.

  “Why, she's blind in one eye!” gasped Ginny.

  “No, miss, she's not blind. She's got one brown eye and one blue one. Just because they don't match doesn't mean she can't see perfectly well. Makes her look a bit special, don't you think? Come on, then, up you go!” Before Ginny knew what was happening, he had boosted her up onto the pony's thin bare back. He put the reins into her hands. “Off you go and give her a try. Enjoy yourself.”

  Ginny glanced at her mother. She was smiling. “You look very nice on her, dear,” she said. Ginny smiled back. But her face felt stiff, as though the smile would crack it. She turned her attention to the thin pony under her. “Come on, you poor creature,” she said under her breath. “Let's get this over with.”

  They slopped through the mud. They found firmer ground over by the edge of the field. It had been ages since Ginny had last ridden— not since last September. That suddenly seemed a long time ago. She had never been allowed to ride without a saddle at camp. The pony felt very different and bony and strange under her. She took a handful of the pony's white mane in one hand and squeezed with her legs.

  The pony started to trot. Ginny was surprised. The trot was smooth. She was having no trouble staying on. She pulled on the reins. Right away the pony came back to a walk. Then Ginny asked her to canter. The dead wet grass squelched under the pony's hooves. She cantered slowly beside the wire fence. Ginny slid a little from side to side, but finally found her balance in the middle. She pulled the pony back to a walk and turned her. She cantered back to her mothe
r and Mr. Dobbs. They were waiting by the barn door.

  “Lovely, dear,” said her mother.

  “Nice little mare,” said Mr. Dobbs.

  The spotted pony stood still, with her head down. She was as worn out as if she'd gone on an hour's hard ride. It had finally started to snow. Ginny could see the flakes melting in the pony's dirty mane. She could feel her own soggy braids. They dripped down her shoulders and soaked through her jacket.

  There was a silence. Both her mother and Mr. Dobbs were looking at Ginny and waiting. In spite of all the dampness, Ginny's mouth felt dry. She discovered in one quick moment that disappointment seemed to have a funny taste.

  “She is a nice pony, Mr. Dobbs,” Ginny said at last. “She'll be just perfect.” She slid off the pony's back without looking and landed in icy mud up to her ankles.

  Mr. Dobbs beamed. “A little spring grass will have her fattened up in no time,” he said cheerfully. “Hay gets poor at this time of year.” Ginny turned away. She was afraid her dislike showed in her face. She knew there was no excuse for the ponies to look so thin and unhappy. It didn't matter what time of year it was.

  Mr. Dobbs led the pony back into the barn.

  Ginny stood and watched the pony go. The pony's sharp hip bones stuck out. Her drooping black tail hung down full of mud and burrs.

  “There you go, dream pony,” she said to herself. “But at least I'll just have you for the summer. I'm not stuck with you forever. And you are a whole lot better than no pony at all.”

  The morning sunlight shone through the window onto Ginny's face. Only half awake, she buried her face in the pillow. She pushed her feet down to a cooler spot between the sheets. Morning. Wednesday. Wednesday morning. She sat up, suddenly wide awake. Today was the day the pony was coming.

  Ginny looked across the room at her shelves. They were jammed with stories about horses and ponies and books on how to ride and care for them. On the top shelf her collection of glass and china horses sparkled in the sunlight.

  Ginny grinned as she swung out of bed. It was a good thing she'd dusted her tiny horses just a few days ago. They would not get the attention this summer they had always been given before. They would have to wait on the white shelf. The summer pony was ugly and shabby. But at least she was real.

  Everything was ready. Ginny's father complained because he would have to leave his car outside all summer. Yet he had cheerfully built a temporary stall for the pony at the back of the garage, near a window. Ginny still shuddered at the memory of the dark, airless barn where they had found the pony on that dreary day in March.

  But that had been a month ago. Now the grass was starting to turn green. There were small, sprouting leaves on the trees. The days were getting longer. Summer was almost here.

  Two clean, new metal garbage cans stood in the garage. They had tight-fitting lids to keep field mice out. They were filled with oats and a mixture of grains. The feed dealer had called it “sweet feed.” He promised it would “fatten up a fence rail.”

  There were six bales of hay and five bales of straw. One bale of straw had already been opened. It was spread into a deep, golden bed in the stall. There was a heavy black rubber feed tub hanging in one corner of the stall. There was a bucket for water in another corner. A brick of salt in a holder had been nailed to the wall near the feed tub. A box of brushes stood on a shelf near the window. Inside were a mane comb and hoof pick.

  Everything was ready and waiting—but there was still school today. Ginny groaned. The pony wouldn't be delivered until late afternoon, well after school was over for the day. There was really nothing more to do but wait.

  Riding on the school bus, then sitting through her classes, Ginny's thoughts swung between excitement and despair. The pony was an awful-looking thing. But her shabby winter coat would finish shedding out. She'd have some proper food and good care. Then maybe she would look a little better.

  Ginny wished she could talk to someone about it. But none of her classmates had the least interest in anything to do with horses. Ginny drew a row of pony heads down the margin of her math paper. The spotted pony would never look like Pam Jennings's pony, of course. Pam's pony was beautiful. It was half Thoroughbred and half Welsh. It was the color of a new copper penny. And it had won a ton of ribbons and championships everywhere. …

  Ginny shut her eyes. She tried to squeeze the thought of this pony from her head. She'd heard Pam was a stuck-up thing, anyway. So who cared? They were the same age. They lived quite near each other. But the two girls went to different schools and had never met. Ginny had seen Pam and her pony at a number of local shows. That was the kind of pony that she had wanted for herself this summer, Ginny admitted gloomily.

  Ginny stared down at the paper on her desk. She saw that she'd drawn the pony heads in the margin with ink. She'd never be able to erase them. With a bored sigh, she began to copy her math problems on a fresh sheet of paper. She chewed thoughtfully on the end of one braid and stared blankly out of the schoolroom window. She felt sure the morning would never end.

  The school bus finally brought her home. Four o'clock came, and then five. Mr. Dobbs was late. Ginny's mother was talking about starting dinner. Daddy would be home soon. Had Ginny set the table? But Ginny barely heard and paid no attention. She felt as though her ears had grown stiff from listening for the sound of truck wheels on the driveway.

  Ginny and her mother heard it at the same moment. The clashing of gears. The rattling of a tired engine. The sound of tires on the drive. They flew out the back door. A battered green pickup truck, with high board sides, stopped outside the garage.

  “Evening, Mrs. Anderson. Got your pony here, safe and sound.” Mr. Dobbs went to the back of the truck. He opened it and disappeared inside. Ginny could barely breathe. She heard thumping sounds. Mr. Dobbs called out, “Whoa!” in a loud voice.

  Suddenly the pony's head showed at the back of the truck. Mr. Dobbs shouted, “Whoa!” again. But the pony paid no attention. Her eyes were on the green grass growing close to the driveway. She took one eager sliding step and jumped out of the truck.

  She was thin and hungry, weak and shaky from the ride in the strange truck. The pony stumbled as she landed. Her knees buckled, and she fell. She began to eat while she was lying there on the grass. She didn't even pick up her head.

  Ginny and her mother stood frozen with shock. They stared at the tired, hungry pony. She was lying in a heap on their lawn. Mr. Dobbs was embarrassed. He rushed to the pony's head and tugged at her halter. With a tired sigh, she got slowly to her feet.

  “There we are!” cried Mr. Dobbs. He thrust the pony's frayed lead rope into Ginny's hand. Ginny just managed a stiff, polite smile. Mr. Dobbs took a folded check from Ginny's mother and buttoned it carefully in the pocket of his shirt.

  He drove off quickly in his clattering truck. He's afraid we might change our minds, Ginny thought bitterly. She and her mother looked in silence at the thin, shabby pony. She was standing patiently in the driveway. Her brown ears were pricked. Her messy black forelock was falling over her mismatched eyes.

  “How nice to have a pony here at last,” said Mrs. Anderson.

  “Wonderful,” said Ginny. She hoped that she sounded more cheerful than she really felt inside. “Gosh, I forgot to ask Mr. Dobbs what her name is. Come on, old girl.” She led the tired pony into her new stall.

  “Perhaps you could name her Patches?” suggested Mrs. Anderson that evening after dinner. Ginny leaned over the side of the stall. She gazed at the pony thoughtfully. She noticed that the pony had finished all her hay and had started to eat her straw bed.

  “Do you mean that moke belongs to us?” Ginny's father was being shown the pony for the first time. He sounded like he was trying not to laugh.

  “She doesn't belong to us,” Ginny said quickly. “She's only here for the summer. And what is a moke, anyway?” She wanted to distract her father before he laughed out loud.

  She didn't really care what a moke was. But she knew the
best way to change any subject with a grown-up was to ask a question.

  Mr. Anderson started to fill his pipe. “When I was a boy, I had a friend who came from England. He used to tell us about a donkey he had at home. He called it a moke. Great word. Moke. I always liked it.” He studied the pony. “Does it eat like that all the time? Or does it stop sometimes to rest?”

  Ginny was grateful for the soft light over the stall. The pony's ribs and hip bones didn't show up as clearly as they did in daylight. She had to agree the pony wasn't much to look at. It wasn't the pony's fault, though. Ginny didn't think she could bear it if anyone laughed at her now.

  Ginny was tired and confused. Yet it really was wonderful having a pony, even this one. She picked up a fresh armful of hay. She piled it in the corner of the stall. “Here, you silly old moke,” she said in a shaky voice. “This is better for you to eat than straw.”

  Ginny's father gave her a quick hug. “Go to bed. You're asleep on your feet. Your moke will still be here in the morning.”

  It was barely daylight the next morning when Ginny slipped out of bed. She tiptoed quietly downstairs in her bathrobe and slippers. She took a carrot from the refrigerator and went out to the garage.

  The pony was really there. She turned her head toward Ginny and nickered softly in a gentle sound of welcome. Ginny tried not to feel pleased. She knew the pony was just asking to be fed. But it felt nice to be greeted so warmly, anyway. She gave the carrot to the pony and patted her on her shaggy neck.

  Everything smelled so good. The whole garage smelled of fresh spring morning. It smelled of the new wood of the stall. And of hay, and feed, and pony. Ginny shut her eyes. She drew in a long, deep breath. There was no question about it. This just had to be the most wonderful smell in the world.

  The pony banged her hoof eagerly against the stall door. Ginny laughed. She hurried to fill a small wooden measure with oats and sweet feed. She poured it into the feed tub in the stall. Then she watched as the pony gave a sigh of pleasure and started to eat.