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Updated: April 30, 2025
In a corner of the loose-box, on a pile of horse rugs, slept Boy, her mass of hair untamed now and spreading abroad like a fan of gold. Beside her on the moss-litter lay Billy Bluff, curled and dreaming of the chase. And on a bed of bracken by the manger, his long legs tied up in knots, was the foal. Silver peeped and instantly withdrew as one who has trespassed innocently.
The girl walked beside the barrow, one hand steadying the foal, who reared an uncanny head. They passed through the yard, jolted noisily over the cobbles, and turned into a great cool loose-box, deep in moss-litter. "I'll go and get the bottle," said the girl. "George, just run and bring a couple of armfuls of litter-grass off the stack and pile it in that corner."
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