About a year ago I lost my dwarf pony to supposed pneumonia. I'm not going to say much about her, because this story is not about her. I had owned a pony who I often rode a few miles on for about two years. It's about the horse we bought to replace her.

We had arranged with black people we knew trained horses to fetch the young srallion they told us about from the town close to our farm they had brought it to. It is a large dark brown stallion with large, intense dark brown eyes. He stood like a frightened soldier tied to a long thin rope; only dashing around a little at a walking pace upon the sight of a buggy stopping close by, with three people climbing out and a ton of sheepdogs who had not yet begun to bark in the canopy.

I wasn't particularly scared, neither particularly impressed when I got out the buggy to examine the face and build of that horse. We noticed that the horse's face was quite young and pityful looking. He was also rather thin. My older brother who had ridden with me and my dad had told me that we could mount the horse and ride him around the place a little if he was tame enough.

My brother quickly realized the situation, untied the horse, and was the first to mount him. His eyes were large and terrified, his nostrils blaring in the fear that seemed to explode from inside him. But despite this, he stood still like nothing had happened and no stranget was about to throw their entire weight on him as they climbed up him, maybe kicked him in the sides or even pulled the bit halter he was wearing so hard that his mouth couldn't handle the pressure.

We didn't dare do anything like that. But my brother was the first to mount him and he successfully got him to walk and trot around at a controlled pace with a graceful style. Everything was going fine and I was walking after the horse being ridden at a trotting pace. We had no...