As already stated, I give my own ideas and opinions on this subject, without any desire to thrust them forward, or the least expectation of seeing them generally adopted. Old prejudices are hard to get rid of; grooms are self-willed, obstinate, and ignorant to a degree, and masters are too yielding, or too indolent to interfere. I therefore regard it as probable that on many persons the advice contained in this chapter will be thrown away, while on others—those who are willing to break new ground—it will, I venture to say, have the salutary effect of producing improvements in the stable, and increasing the weight of the purse. By good management, which is the true secret of all economy, a man, or woman, may keep a pair of horses for the same yearly outlay that his or her less provident neighbour will expend on keeping one—while the credit of the stable will be quite as well, if not better, maintained.

I am most strongly in favour of cooked food, and opposed to the giving of raw oats in any shape or form. The absurd theory that this system of feeding is calculated to make horses “soft,” is about as sensible as that which avers (or would do so) that a man fed upon cooked rice and well-boiled potatoes, would be less capable of doing a good day’s work than if compelled to eat the same materials raw. Animals possessed of even the very best digestions lose a great portion of the nutriment of their food when given in the ordinary way—a large quantity of the oats passing through their bodies quite as whole and unbroken as when swallowed; whereas every grain of the cooked food is assimilated with the blood, and goes to nourish the system,—consequently, nothing is lost.

A chief reason for the prejudice against cooked food is that it gives trouble, and is a “bother” to prepare. This is always the groom’s excuse; everything is a trouble to him, except thrusting a measure of hard dry corn, accompanied by a bucket of water, at stated intervals before his charge, and receiving his wages—at stated intervals also—for so doing. Were he to understand, when being hired, that to cook the food would form as much a portion of his business as to groom and bed the horses, there would probably be very little grumbling—especially when every convenient appliance would be found ready to his hand; but the difficulty always lies with the old and knowing ones—men who have been accustomed all their lives to do things their own way, and have things just as they pleased. These, as a rule, resent every innovation, and are only to be dealt with by persons as knowing and determined as themselves.

Another source of objection is the idea that it will require some special apparatus—some costly, difficult, complicated contrivance for carrying out the proposed plan. There never was a greater mistake made. In my next chapter, which will be entirely devoted to the subject of stabling, I shall endeavour to show that the only apparatus necessary is an exceedingly simple one,—certainly not by any means of either a costly or extravagant nature.

To feed a horse four times a day, on any kind of food, is in my opinion unnecessary; unless, indeed, he be an extremely delicate feeder, in which case “little and often” should be the rule; but I maintain that if fed but thrice he ought to be given as good a proportion as is ordinarily divided into four. I like to see a hard-working horse able to eat his five quarterns of mixed oats and beans, varied with a good mash once or twice a week, and always on a Saturday night. At the same time I am entirely against placing an excess of food in the manger at one time; it is much better to give an animal just what he will finish, than that he should not leave his manger perfectly clean.

Corn ought to be boiled until every grain is swollen to nearly double its normal size, and is capable of being bruised between the fingers; it should then be turned out on big trays and left to cool. To suffer it to grow quite cold is not only unnecessary, but is scarcely even advisable; tepid food is much easier of digestion, both in the human stomach and in that of the horse, than food that has become chilled. Cold substances when swallowed, must rise to a temperature of nearly 100° before the process of digestion can go healthily forward, and that the food should be a step or two on the road to this degree of warmth will materially assist the sanitary laws of animal nature. There is not, at the same time, the very smallest necessity for administering warm food at all periods when nourishment is given; on the contrary, a change of diet will be found very beneficial, and summer feeding ought to differ from that of winter, both in quantity and temperature. In saying this, however, I do not for a moment mean to convey that hunters, even when not in use, should ever be allowed to drop out of condition. I don’t believe they should, unless completely invalided and not likely to be able to do any work during the ensuing season. I think they ought to be fed with a proportion of oats, though somewhat less than in winter time, and be kept in regular exercise every day. I have already said that I approve of driving hunters in harness during the off season, and having seen it tested, I can speak for the efficacy of it.

I have often been asked whether a horse ought to be given the same quantity of boiled food as of unboiled; in other words, if the process of cooking occasions the food to swell to twice its natural size, and so to fill, say, two measures in place of one, ought the two measures to be given to the horse? My answer is, certainly, if the animal is a voracious feeder, and is able to make a complete clearance of all that is in his manger, even after getting the two measures,—but I do not believe that one horse out of a hundred will be capable of doing so, or will show the least inclination to make use of so large a bulk of food. My experience has been, that about three-fourths of the quantity of cooked food is all that a horse will or can possibly eat, and even this amount is unusual—a trifle more than half being the customary thing with horses who would otherwise get through the full quantity of raw material,—and herein lies the saving, for the satisfying bulk of the food taken at a meal is largely increased by cooking, while every particle of it goes to the nourishment of the animal’s frame: a thing which is certainly not the case when the substance is partaken of in its raw state.

The water in which corn has been boiled ought never by any means to be thrown away; it sometimes is, by careless or ignorant grooms, but the pity and wastefulness are very great, for it is most admirable and nourishing for drinking purposes, as well as for other stable uses.

To secure the purchase of good oats, buy them by measurement, and not by weight. An excellent sample will weigh from 30 to 36 pounds to the bushel—a prime one ought to weigh from 45 to 48—and this, be it observed, will, when denuded of the chaff, yield scarcely more than 35 of pure grain. It is great nonsense to talk about the advisability of purchasing black, golden, or white oats; all three may be very good or very bad of their kind, and it is in reality only the chaff that is coloured, the kernel of each being of one tint. Sound oats ought to be dry, and very hard; they should chip asunder when crushed—not have anything of a torn appearance—and should be perfectly scentless. The less bearded they are the better. I strongly object to kiln-dried oats for horses, although many sellers resort to the practice by way of expelling moisture from new grain. I conceive it to be a thoroughly unwholesome process, taking into account the fact that sulphur is frequently employed in it—a thing calculated to produce the most terrible belly-ache, spasms, and gripes. If the presence of sulphur is suspected, a sample of the oats may be rubbed hastily between the palms of the hands, and the peculiar odour will at once betray itself.

Beans are not much employed in Ireland as horse-food, but in England they are very generally used. Egyptian beans are the best; they are usually mild, sweet, and tender. Peas are excellent—so are potatoes—and tares possess so many virtues that it is a wonder the use of them is so generally confined to farm teams. Carrots are very good when not given too freely. I approve of them highly for aged horses, but should be cautious about dealing them out too profusely to young blood ones. I like to see them given whole, or chopped so fine that the horse cannot run the risk of choking himself by swallowing them in lumps. This applies to almost all species of roots when given raw. For delicate feeders carrots are especially valuable; they give a peculiar relish to bran and other substances, and cause such to be eagerly taken, even when rejected before.

Now a word about hay. Upland hay is the best. It may be known by the following marks: a perfectly clean look, a bright colour, a distinctness of fibre, an absence of dust, a pleasant fresh smell, a decided crispness, a scarcity of weeds, and the presence of seeds in the stems. Delicacy and cleanliness are its characteristics, and it is in every way immeasurably superior to lowland hay, which is tawny, limp, strong smelling, and “woolly” to the touch.

New hay of any kind is objectionable for feeding purposes, but I consider that the year’s growth is quite fit and wholesome in November.

Clover hay—that is, first-crop clover—is excellent for mixing with upland; it is largely interspersed with grass, the stems are fine, and the leaves untinged by blackness, the flowers, though dried and faded, are abundant throughout it, and retain much of their original colour. Second-crop clover is not nearly so desirable; it may be known by a coarse, strong flavour when put in the mouth, by the big stems, the dingy appearance, and the noticeable blackness of the leaves.

I do not approve of giving too much hay of any kind to horses; a superabundance is apt to make them pot-bellied, and unfit for hard work. Hunters, however, that get nothing else for their mid-day meal, ought, when in the stable, to be fed with sufficient quantity to make up for the absence of more substantial food.

Ready-cut chaff ought never to be purchased; all sorts of things find their way into it, just as is said to be the case with cheap sausages!

Boiled barley is excellent food for horses. I have seen some splendid youngsters that were fed on nothing else, save the trifling addition of a very small portion of upland hay.

Gruel, if given, should be as carefully prepared as though made for the human subject; the neglect of this caution is the cause of so many grooms thrusting heavy feeds before exhausted horses, and averring that the animals “will not drink gruel.” No wonder that they reject it, when the stuff so-named is merely a bucketful of hot water with a handful or two of oatmeal stirred into it. My experience of horses has not been a small one, and I can candidly say that I have never yet seen even the most wearied or delicate animal reject a properly prepared mess of gruel.

To make a good mash, allow at least a quartern of oats and a pint of linseed—these to be boiled for three hours or upwards, and then mixed with as much bran as will make it of a proper damp consistency, but not a wet slop, or yet a dry poultice. It should be given rather warm, and a little salt is an excellent addition. A delicate or ailing animal that will not eat his mash may often be tempted by putting a little treacle or sugar into it.

A horse’s supply of water ought never to be limited. On this I shall touch in my next chapter, in conjunction with stable appliances and drinking-troughs. To drink plentifully is a symptom of good health. Very cold water is not advisable for horses; a handful of hay will take the chill off, or a little meal thrown in. Nitre should never under any pretext be added to the drink. Soft water is the best for stable uses; if this cannot be conveniently procured, hard water may be considerably softened by boiling, with the addition of about half an ounce of carbonate of soda to every pailful of liquid.

I strongly advocate variety of feeding for horses. My own hunters were trained to eat and relish almost everything—except, perhaps, codfish, on which the Newfoundlanders bring up their horses wonderfully well! Mine were given turnips, peas, potatoes (both boiled and raw), apples, pears, parsnips, patent horse biscuits, great armfuls of cowslips and fresh soil, bread, and oatcake—in short, more things than I can possibly enumerate. They were great pets, and I loved to take little dainties out to them—a few nice ripe plums, with the stones removed, a handful of sugar, a crisp biscuit or two, or a juicy apple or pear. Such joy, such whinnying, such turning of beautiful heads, such licking of grateful lips, such playful searchings for more, and brightening of lustrous eyes, and such romps together in the clean, fresh, crisp straw, with mutual kissings, and rubbings, and fondlings of all sorts. My heart is sad when I think of them—even though I know that they are made much of and are well cared in other homes—and though so many joys are spared to me in mine.

In conclusion, let me advise all who are determined to maintain a prejudice against cooked food, or whose limited stable accommodation may not admit of the erection of even the most simple contrivance for cooking it, to procure a corn-crusher and see that it is made good use of. To purchase such an article, and then allow it to stand idle in the stable is a course of procedure somewhat similar to that adopted by Lever’s West-countryman, who bought himself a new coat, and said it was “a fine thing to sit lookin’ at on a Sunday morning.”