Horse Stories

Horse Stories

by Diana Secker Tesdell (Editor)


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A perfect Christmas gift—a beautifully jacketed Everyman's Library Pocket Classics hardcover anthology of two centuries of short fiction about our most majestic companion animal. With full-cloth binding and a silk ribbon marker.

Annie Proulx and Bret Harte transport us to the ranches of the Old West and Rudyard Kipling to the polo fields of India. Arthur Conan Doyle makes a famous Thoroughbred disappear, and Raymond Carver gives us a vision of runaway horses in the mist. Jane Smiley, Margaret Atwood, Isaac Babel, and Ted Hughes explore the human passions horses can unleash. From the rollicking racetrack humor of Damon Runyon to the poignant lyricism of John Steinbeck's "The Red Pony" to the wild recklessness of adolescence in William Saroyan's "The Summer of the Beautiful White Horse" and Lydia Peelle's "Sweethearts of the Rodeo," these stories testify to our varied and timeless fascination with the noble animal.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780307961457
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Publication date: 10/16/2012
Pages: 368
Sales rank: 1,305,555
Product dimensions: 4.80(w) x 7.30(h) x 1.10(d)

About the Author

Diana Secker Tesdell is the editor of the Everyman's Pocket Classic anthologies Christmas Stories, Love Stories, Dog Stories, Cat Stories, Horse Stories, New York Stories, Bedtime Stories, Stories of Art and Artists, Stories of Fatherhood, Stories of Motherhood, Stories of the Sea, and Stories from the Kitchen, and of the Everyman's Library Pocket Poet Lullabies and Poems for Children.

Read an Excerpt

Excerpted from Chu Chu by Bret Harte
I do not believe that the most enthusiastic lover of that ‘useful and noble animal,’ the horse, will claim for him the charm of geniality, humor, or expansive confidence. Any creature who will not look you squarely in the eye – whose only oblique glances are inspired by fear, distrust, or a view to attack; who has no way of returning caresses, and whose favorite expression is one of head-lifting disdain, may be ‘noble’ or ‘useful,’ but can be hardly said to add to the gayety of nations. Indeed it may be broadly stated that, with the single exception of gold-fish, of all animals kept for the recreation of mankind the horse is alone capable of exciting a passion that shall be absolutely hopeless. I deem these general remarks necessary to prove that my unreciprocated affection for Chu Chu was not purely individual or singular. And I may add that to these general characteristics she brought the waywardness of her capricious sex.
She came to me out of the rolling dust of an emigrant wagon, behind whose tail-board she was gravely trotting. She was a half-broken filly – in which character she had at different times unseated everybody in the train – and, although covered with dust, she had a beautiful coat, and the most lambent gazelle-like eyes I had ever seen. I think she kept these latter organs purely for ornament – apparently looking at things with her nose, her sensitive ears, and, sometimes, even a slight lifting of her slim near foreleg. On our first interview I thought she favored me with a coy glance, but as it was accompanied by an irrelevant ‘Look out!’ from her owner, the teamster, I was not certain. I only know that after some conversation, a good deal of mental reservation, and the disbursement of considerable coin, I found myself standing in the dust of the departing emigrant wagon with one end of a forty-foot riata in my hand, and Chu Chu at the other.
I pulled invitingly at my own end, and even advanced a step or two toward her. She then broke into a long disdainful pace, and began to circle round me at the extreme limit of her tether. I stood admiring her free action for some moments – not always turning with her, which was tiring – until I found that she was gradually winding herself up on me! Her frantic astonishment when she suddenly found herself thus brought up against me was one of the most remarkable things I ever saw, and nearly took me off my legs. Then, when she had pulled against the riata until her narrow head and prettily arched neck were on a perfectly straight line with it, she as suddenly slackened the tension and condescended to follow me, at an angle of her own choosing. Sometimes it was on one side of me, sometimes on the other. Even then the sense of my dreadful contiguity apparently would come upon her like a fresh discovery, and she would become hysterical. But I do not think that she really saw me. She looked at the riata and sniffed it disparagingly; she pawed some pebbles that were near me tentatively with her small hoof; she started back with a Robinson Crusoe-like horror of my footprints in the wet gully, but my actual personal presence she ignored. She would sometimes pause, with her head thoughtfully between her forelegs, and apparently say: ‘There is some extraordinary presence here: animal, vegetable, or mineral – I can’t make out which – but it’s not good to eat, and I loathe and detest it.’
When I reached my house in the suburbs, before entering the ‘fifty vara’ lot inclosure, I deemed it prudent to leave her outside while I informed the household of my purchase; and with this object I tethered her by the long riata to a solitary sycamore which stood in the centre of the road, the crossing of two frequented thoroughfares. It was not long, however, before I was interrupted by shouts and screams from that vicinity, and on returning thither I found that Chu Chu, with the assistance of her riata, had securely wound up two of my neighbors to the tree, where they presented the appearance of early Christian martyrs. When I released them it appeared that they had been attracted by Chu Chu’s graces, and had offered her overtures of affection, to which she had characteristically rotated with this miserable result. I led her, with some difficulty, warily keeping clear of the riata, to the inclosure, from whose fence I had previously removed several bars. Although the space was wide enough to have admitted a troop of cavalry she affected not to notice it, and managed to kick away part of another section on entering. She resisted the stable for some time, but after carefully examining it with her hoofs, and an affectedly meek outstretching of her nose, she consented to recognize some oats in the feed-box – without looking at them – and was formally installed. All this while she had resolutely ignored my presence. As I stood watching her she suddenly stopped eating; the same reflective look came over her. ‘Surely I am not mistaken, but that same obnoxious creature is somewhere about here!’ she seemed to say, and shivered at the possibility.
It was probably this which made me confide my unreciprocated affection to one of my neighbors – a man supposed to be an authority on horses, and particularly of that wild species to which Chu Chu belonged. It was he who, leaning over the edge of the stall where she was complacently and, as usual, obliviously munching, absolutely dared to toy with a pet lock of hair which she wore over the pretty star on her forehead.
‘Ye see, captain,’ he said, with jaunty easiness, ‘hosses is like wimmen; ye don’t want ter use any standoffishness or shyness with them; a stiddy but keerless sort o’ familiarity, a kind o’ free but firm handlin’, jess like this, to let her see who’s master’ –
We never clearly knew how it happened; but when I picked up my neighbor from the doorway, amid the broken splinters of the stall rail, and a quantity of oats that mysteriously filled his hair and pockets, Chu Chu was found to have faced around the other way, and was contemplating her forelegs, with her hind ones in the other stall. My neighbor spoke of damages while he was in the stall, and of physical coercion when he was out of it again. But here Chu Chu, in some marvelous way, righted herself, and my neighbor departed hurriedly with a brimless hat and an unfinished sentence.
My next intermediary was Enriquez Saltello – a youth of my own age, and the brother of Consuelo Saltello, whom I adored. As a Spanish Californian he was presumed, on account of Chu Chu’s half-Spanish origin, to have superior knowledge of her character, and I even vaguely believed that his language and accent would fall familiarly on her ear. There was the drawback, however, that he always preferred to talk in a marvelous English, combining Castilian precision with what he fondly believed to be Californian slang.
‘To confer then as to thees horse, which is not – observe me – a Mexican plug! Ah, no! You can your boots bet on that. She is of Castilian stock – believe me and strike me dead! I will myself at different times overlook and affront her in the stable, examine her as to the assault, and why she should do thees thing. When she is of the exercise I will also accost and restrain her. Remain tranquil, my friend! When a few days shall pass much shall be changed, and she will be as another. Trust your oncle to do thees thing! Comprehend me? Everything shall be lovely, and the goose hang high!’
Conformably with this he ‘overlooked’ her the next day, with a cigarette between his yellow-stained fingertips, which made her sneeze in a silent pantomimic way, and certain Spanish blandishments of speech which she received with more complacency. But I don’t think she ever even looked at him. In vain he protested that she was the ‘dearest’ and ‘littlest’ of his ‘little loves’ – in vain he asserted that she was his patron saint, and that it was his soul’s delight to pray to her; she accepted the compliment with her eyes fixed upon the manger. When he had exhausted his whole stock of endearing diminutives, adding a few playful and more audacious sallies, she remained with her head down, as if inclined to meditate upon them. This he declared was at least an improvement on her former performances. It may have been my own jealousy, but I fancied she was only saying to herself, ‘Gracious! can there be two of them?’

Table of Contents

Beryl Markham, “The Splendid Outcast”

Jane Smiley, “Justa Quarter Crack” from Horse Heaven

Bret Harte, “Chu Chu”

Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, “The Doctor’s Horse”

Rudyard Kipling, “The Maltese Cat”

Saki, “The Brogue”

Mark Twain, “A Genuine Mexican Plug”

Annie Proulx, “The Blood Bay”

Isaac Babel, “The Story of a Horse”

Damon Runyon, “Old Em’s Kentucky Home”

Arthur Conan Doyle, “Silver Blaze”

D. H. Lawrence, “The Rocking-Horse Winner”

John Steinbeck, “The Gift” from The Red Pony

William Saroyan, “The Summer of the Beautiful White Horse”

Lydia Peelle, “Sweethearts of the Rodeo”

Pam Houston, “What Shock Heard”

Margaret Atwood, “White Horse”

Ted Hughes, “The Rain Horse”

Raymond Carver, “Call If You Need Me”

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