Spring had come at last. The cold east winds had been followed by warm south-westerly gales with soft rain, making the grass grow and filling the bogs also. The golden-yellow of the marsh-marigold at the stream’s edge was repeated in a lighter key by the stunted wild daffodils in the forest meadows, and again in higher but more diluted tone by the primroses on the banks outside the woods. The blackthorn was past its prime, but the bushes were still covered with blossom now looking like soiled snow. The oaks and beeches were still in bud only. The thorns had put out tufts of vivid green, drowning the grey-green of their lichened branches. In the swampy spots the catkins of the bog myrtle shone in the sun with extraordinary brilliance, presenting great patches of that rare colour in wild floral nature—deep orange and orange-scarlet.

Of course, the birds were here. Not only the residents, the stonechat and the little hedge and field birds, and the rook, crow, kestrel, and heron, but the migrants also. The chiffchaff uttered his name continually as he hunted in the scraggy budding oaks, the willow-warbler repeated his wavering refrain, crescendo and diminuendo, very like the bends in the “tail” in “Alice in Wonderland;” and the whitethroat was beginning to throw himself in ecstasy above the bushes. The blackcap flew from bough to bough, as he shrilled his wild, inconsequent, yet melodious and captivating song, while the garden-warbler skulked in the bushes, chuckling and fluting throatily at great length; the nightingale began to “jug,” while his shorter but more richly coloured mate industriously collected oak-leaves for her nest. In the beechwoods the woodwren flitted from bough to bough, repeating his clear call, followed by a twittering cadence like ice tinkling in a glass, while his wings quivered in time with his tune.

Above the moor the cock lapwing made occasional flights to amuse his sitting partner, flapping his rounded wings vigorously as he flew all ways, curving downwards to the ground without alighting and up again in another sweep, then “reversing” in his characteristic way. Meanwhile the redshank stood on the bog bobbing his head nervously, or whistled shrilly to his mate, if a crow or a man appeared on the horizon. The redshank likes to nest near the lapwing, which is as brave as the other is timid, dashing threateningly down on an intruder, especially its ancient enemies—crow, jackdaw, and harrier.

Out on the moor lawns of green grass showed amongst the heather, and in the bogs, amidst the bleached tussock grass, were patches of new grass of the most vivid emerald, looking, and most deceptively so, like firm sward.

There are many bogs in the forest, varying from patches a few yards square to huge ones covering many acres. In Denny Bog still lie the remains of an aeroplane which landed on the smooth and, to an eye looking from above, apparently firm surface. The pilot, on getting out of the fuselage, was soon up to his waist; and in spite of repeated efforts, it was found impossible to extricate the plane, and the salvers had to content themselves with removing the engine.

To the human visitor the bog has no terrors, for its dead yellowish grass with green patches and occasional pools proclaim its nature. Moreover, causeways of gravel have been made across narrower parts where necessary.

Skewbald and his mother were wandering as usual on the moor, the rest of the herd strung out over a square mile of forest, hillside, and grass bottom, too intent on making up for their scanty winter fare to desire the close companionship of their fellows.

Skewbald was much the same as a month before, perhaps a little more ragged, as his loosening winter dress got carded out by the thorns.

The two were on the outskirts of a great bog, to the south of which extensive woods filled the horizon. They were not alone. A little distance away two gipsies, a man and a boy, were following the edge of the bog, striding from tussock to tussock and probing with their sticks for bad places which might let them in.

There was no difficulty in divining what they wanted. The lapwings screaming overhead, the redshanks wailing as they flew right away, knew also that their eggs were in danger. Plovers’ eggs are part of the gipsy’s livelihood—to sell, because they are too precious for him to eat. He would say that he found far more in a hen’s egg.

As the egg-hunters quartered the ground, they approached the ponies, which, judging from their movements that they themselves were not likely to be molested, ignored their proximity. The boy, when abreast of Skewbald, suddenly raised his stick, and from pure mischief or rather fun, ran at the yearling, which, startled, bounded off, but in the direction of the bog. He plunged about and sank deeply, while his strenuous efforts to extricate himself only caused him to become more firmly embedded. Soon he could no longer move his legs, the mud reached his flanks, and he was still sinking, though now more slowly.

The man stormed at the boy standing open-mouthed in dismay, then looking round began to run, calling to the other to follow. He was making for a promontory of firm ground stretching into the bog. Here stood a few stunted pines which a fire had caught, for they were black and dead, some already lying on the ground. Both loaded themselves with the fallen logs, staggered back to the yearling, and began to throw the wood on the bog towards him. Skewbald, incapable of motion save for frenzied movements of his head and neck, was aghast at his plight, and called piteously to his mother, who plunged backwards and forwards along the edge of the bog, whinnying distractedly.

The man waded out and pushed log after log under the yearling’s belly. Then he got a pole under him behind the fore-legs. His next action was to bend down and feel in the mud to ascertain if the pony’s legs were straight. A forcible pull on a bent leg might cause a fracture. His preparations made, he put all his strength into levering up the pole, calling: “Now, Jarge, let ’un have what for;” and the boy, with a stick, belaboured the yearling’s hind-quarters. Skewbald felt himself moved by the man’s force, and, under the added stimulus of pain, made tremendous exertions. The man made another effort, and a fore-leg came up. “At ’un again, lad;” and the harassed yearling, with a great heave and an explosive “suck,” came out of the mud and began to flounder towards the firm ground, leaving the two half-bogged themselves. The man reached out and pulled the boy towards him, and they worked their way out.

They were covered with mud from head to foot, and regarded each other doubtfully, until the man laughed (a smile would not have been perceived), whereupon the boy exploded in peals of merriment. Their hearts were warm within them, with the pleasure of success, for horseflesh or ponyflesh is dear to the gipsy. Then, picking up the eggs they had collected, which, being gipsies, they had carefully deposited in a tussock, they departed.

But Skewbald carried a long scar on his belly, caused by a sharp pine knot, to the day of his death.