Skewbald, now a four-year-old, had in late August succeeded to the leadership of the company with which he had been running. The stallion which had lorded it over the herd had been “caught in,” and Skewbald had stepped into his place as the acknowledged superior of the young males. It was destined to be a temporary supremacy, for, as a skewbald, he could not be welcomed as a breeding stallion; his coloration was too pronounced. Self-coloured browns and bays were considered to be truer to the forest type. Skewbald’s lot was to be that of a pit pony.

No young stallion challenged him to battle twice, for Skewbald possessed, besides strength, a spirit, a quickness of movement together with a power of deciding rapidly, and when roused, a fighting temper which boded ill for an enemy.

As a future pit pony he had the merit of not being too tall, but he was perfectly proportioned, and his carriage and ease of movement proclaimed his fitness as an instrument of strength and speed.

Patterned as he was in bold chestnut and cream-white, his coat did not show the high lights rippling over the muscles of a bay or black, but the slinging of his barrel between his shoulders and flanks, the arch of his neck and withers, the action of his fore-legs, and the tension of his hocks, marked him as beyond the ordinary.

His mane, very bushy, and like his tail waved as with a lady’s curling-irons, was white nearly to the regions of his ears, where it turned to chestnut with an intervening streak of purplish-black. His long, ample tail, carried in a drooping curve, was white above and dark below. His on-side had one great chestnut patch covering most of his barrel and flank, and extending below the hock. From a distance, this side was deceptive, because the great brown blotch looked like a pony standing end on. The offside had the neck and face chestnut, and a spot of the same on his barrel smaller in area than on the other side, and leaving his hind-leg white.

But although he looked and acted like a born leader, kept the yearlings and two-year-olds in their places, rounded up the mares and saw that all were on the move when the herd was changing quarters, and, last but not least, glanced continually round the horizon for enemies in the shape of agisters or other colt-hunters, it must not be supposed that he decided all the movements of his company.

Some of the mares were years older than he, and knew the forest infinitely better—the grassy lawns and bottoms, the bare “plains,” wind-swept in hot weather, and the great woods with sheltered recesses in drenching rain. So they, as a rule, took the initiative and decided when to move and where to go. But the direction once indicated, Skewbald took charge and acted as convoy.

In the herd was an old rusty-black mare with white forehead blaze and off hind-sock. She had been broken in for riding and was shod, as might be seen by her footprints, the imprint of the double line of the shoe showing out among the single, nearly circular curves of the unshod ponies.

In her time she had assisted in the “catching in” of many a pony, and now that she was again in the forest, although she had lost the timidity of the uncaught beasts, she made up for this by the wiliness of one who knew the ways of man. Time and time again the colt-hunters wished her far away, when they found her in company with ponies they wanted. They might manoeuvre the group at a gentle trot across the moor, but just as they approached a tempting open gateway, the mare would check, toss her head, snort, and break away at a gallop, followed by the rest, in spite of shouts and cracking of whips.

She was also a persistent wanderer, a “lane haunter,” “lane creeper” or “romeo” (an atrocious Forest pun)—that is, a pony which escapes from the forest into the lanes to munch the sweet grass of the hedgerows. This is considered one of the worst vices in a forest pony, because she leads others with her. Then the agister may impound the culprits, and the owners have to pay for any depredations, as fence-breaking and crop-spoiling, that may have been committed. Prizes are offered for well-bred ponies in good condition, but are likely to be withheld unless the agister certifies that the selected beasts are no “lane haunters.” Some think that the introduction of alien blood has brought into existence a type of animal unsuited to the rigours of the forest, too delicate to flourish on the meagre fare, and therefore inclined to wander away in search of richer food.

By a mischance, the mare’s last foal had died soon after birth, and because of this, perhaps, she was this season unsettled, restless, and still more inclined to wander. The summer, too, had been hot and dry, so the forest pasturage was meagre and scanty, the ponies having to search continually for their fare.

Whereas a herd keeps usually within an area of four or five square miles, this mare, whether owing to the above reasons or her innate tendency to wander, during this season kept the company on the move by her restlessness and persistence, so that without hurry, or causing fatigue to the youngest, and feeding as they went, the forest was explored from end to end. She was Skewbald’s favourite mare; when she went ahead, he followed, and the herd fell in behind, in the usual column of route.

She knew the forest roads and lanes both as a riding pony and a “lane creeper,” the short-cuts, the hunting bridges, the deep recesses of the woods, and the narrow winding pony paths across the upland “plains,” as if she had the ordnance map in her head.

After whiling away a hot afternoon cooling their fetlocks at Potterne Ford, the herd spent the evening on Blackdown near the great round barrow, and in the early morning, before dawn, the mare led the way southward over bare ridge and through thick woods, until coming out on the Beaulieu road they found the manor gate left open by a sleepy carter, and trooped down in the early morning, past Beaulieu Abbey gateway, pausing at the margin of the beautiful estuary with its wooded banks, and yachts anchored at the bend. All was quiet except for the yelping of a few black-headed gulls questing for food among the pools, fringed with tawny seaweed left by the tide.

Skewbald advanced to sample the water, then snorted with disgust, and retreated, driving his company on to the road again. The old mare had a good drinking-place in mind, and led them up the street until they were stopped by Hatchet Gate. The gatekeeper, just getting up, heard the clatter of hoofs. “More lane haunters,” she said; “I must let them into the forest again, or they will get into trouble.” She hastened down, the herd passed through, trotted on to Hatchet Pond and slaked their thirst.

They spent some days on the great aerodrome of Beaulieu Heath, whence, in the days of war, the aeroplanes buzzed on their way across Blackdown to attack an imaginary enemy plane marked as a cross of white gravel on the ground. Now all was quiet, rows of huts and buildings stood silent and deserted. The lane creeper took the road again and led the troop towards Lymington. Down the hill they went, past the monument to the gallant admiral of the many virtues duly set forth, and hesitated at the toll-bridge, where the collector, waiting awhile to see if any human was following with the toll dues, drove them back. They turned up the road bordering the left bank of the Lymington River, and soon found themselves in the forest again, but on the other side, for they forded the river, went over Sandy Down and crossed the Brockenhurst road, where a sorrel mare nearly lost her foal, which insisted on nosing a chunk of bread oblivious of a charabanc of excursionists. They scattered over Setley Plain, where are the two tumuli with intersecting rings, and crossing under the railway, wandered about the uplands above Sway, with its tall tower, a landmark visible far out to sea. Here, sunning themselves by a narrow forest railway bridge, they encountered another herd, a mere group, with that rarest of forest ponies—a white stallion—in charge. He was white, of course, because of his age; his backbone stood up and his ribs showed; but though he snuffed the air, there was no trouble, for the old fellow had no thought of showing fight, nor was this the season for dissension. All Skewbald wanted, for his part, was to get his company over the bridge, and when the others understood this, they made way willingly enough.

The wanderers straggled with many stoppages over the great open moors and uplands of the Rhinefield Walk. In the forest a “walk” is not a pathway, but a district of several square miles, formerly presided over by a ranger, an office now abolished.

They crossed Black Knowl, forded the pretty stream gurgling over its gravelled bed, and were soon cropping the fine greensward of beautiful Balmer Lawn. Here Skewbald had a tussle with a young iron grey who thought the lawn belonged to him. After a short passage of arms, Skewbald disabused him of this notion, and the youngster retired hurriedly.

The herd wandered through the picturesque drives leading from the lawn, and drank at the little pond on the golf-links, set like a jewel on the breast of the moor.

The young grey stallion had some cause for jealousy, for Skewbald noticed a white mare with a great blotch of jet black on her neck and fore-quarters, and she took his eye, being spotted himself; but she refused to leave her beloved pastures; she was no wanderer, and never had been known to stray more than half a mile from her birthplace, a field by the lawn.

Then rain came at last, and the mare crossed the river again and led her party into the woods. They wandered through the glade of the Queen Bower, with its great beeches, crossed the Blackwater, and so into the thick woods of Vinney Ridge. Here they had a fright one midday, for the baying of hounds, tootling of horns, and tramping of hoofs dismayed all but the old mare, who had often ridden with the buck-hounds. She led her party, which were inclined to scatter, down a drive away from the noise. Later in the week the rain ceased, and leaving the woods, they crossed the Ober and slowly climbed the hill to Wilverley Post, the young foals even daring to rub themselves against the “Naked Man”—a dead tree reduced to a bare trunk and a couple of armlike branches stretched out imploringly. Here they crossed the black tarred road between Southampton and Bournemouth. It was Sunday afternoon and the cars were almost in procession, so numerous were they, the noisy little sidecar predominating; but the ponies took small account of wheels. Horns might blow and chauffeurs curse, but the mares, and especially the foals, were not to be hurried. As the herd crossed head to tail, so that there was not room for even a motor-cycle to pass, the road looked like Piccadilly at its narrowest part, when the policemen stop the traffic. All sorts of cars were there, from Fords to a Rolls-Royce; great charabancs full of trippers, who threw crumpled paper balls at the ponies to hurry them up, but without avail, and the drivers, remembering the warning signs put up by the R.S.P.C.A., had to curb their impatience until the last foal had crossed.

The ponies spread themselves over Clay Hill, went down into the bottoms and up by the steep road from Holmsley Station into Burley, and drank at the pond fringed with hollies, on the golf-links, where one Christmas the scarlet berries hid the leaves, as the golfers, if they notice such things, can testify.

They cropped the lawn outside the school, until the noise of the children coming out sent them into the woods. They missed Burley, fortunately, for one of the old forest pounds stands close by, crossed the road at Vereley, passed the gipsy encampment, and then reaching another black road leading to Ringwood, spread out over the open ground of Picket Post, one of the finest spots in the forest, because of its altitude and its views towards the sea. Here one can see clearly the flanks of the forest hills rising from the level bottom like hills out of a lake. The ponies munched the sweet grass on the lawn with its beautiful little tumulus crowned with hollies, but unfortunately dwarfed by the great modern house close by.

Then the unsatisfied maternal instincts of the old mare surged up within her, an irresistible impulse to action, and she did what horses, dogs, and other animals will do—set her face towards her birthplace. She had been born at Brook, and old memories of her present surroundings may have suggested to her the route to the village. At any rate, the herd were soon travelling slowly to the north-east. Over Handy Cross Plain they went, through King’s Garden and so to Stoney Cross, where, from the hill leading down to the dell of the Rufus Stone, one gets the fine view across to Brook and beyond.

The mare wandered about several days visiting the haunts of her youth; then again her loss came upon her, and she started off across country, for the spot where last she had seen her foal.

All this time the wanderings of the ponies had not been unnoted. People owning ponies had seen them here and there, and in passing a friend’s house would call and remark, “I saw your chestnut mare over by Castle Malwood the other day,” or the owner of Skewbald might be greeted with, “Your four-year-old seems a bit of a wanderer.” If the herd strayed on to a public road where the agisters might catch them, and involve their owners in expense, a forest man would spend a little time chivying them back into the forest. So they had committed no damage in their fleeting disappearances from the forest proper. They had not been impounded, and apparently they were free as air, yet the owner of any pony there, with a little trouble and inquiry, could ascertain its whereabouts and could get it either personally or by deputy.

The herd came back over Emery Down, the great gaps in its wooded sides showing where the Canadian gangs had cleared the timber during the war. Cleared it in a lazy way, the forest men remarked, for instead of bending to cut the tree at its base, they had left many stumps waist-high. But then, timber is cheap in the West.

Missing Lyndhurst, by devious ways the ponies came out on the golf-links, where a yearling got a smack on the flank from the ball of an impatient golfer. They crossed the road, and tried the sweet grass of Pondhead. It was a bright Saturday afternoon, and a boy with a camera, catching sight of Skewbald, tried for a snapshot. He stalked him backwards and forwards, manoeuvring for a good pose and lighting, until the stallion got suspicious and annoyed. Disdaining the bridge, he jumped the streamlet, mounted the hill a few paces, and called loudly. The mares, not unmindful of the intruder with his flashing camera, understood. Without undue haste they gathered their foals, crossed the little bridge and took the path up the hill, Skewbald standing sentinel until he saw they were all on the move, then, pressing forward, he overtook the head of the column, and led the way.

Soon there was a quarter of a mile of ponies of all colours, following the meanderings of the path, the mares with lowered heads, foals trotting to left and right. Last of all went an old white mare with a black sucker silhouetted against her side. It was a pretty picture. Even in the distance the energetic action of Skewbald could be noted; his tossing mane proclaimed him the leader. It was a picture, and the boy could not help snapping it, although he knew the distance was too great.

The old mare no longer led the way, for the herd had reached its home pasturage. Indeed, Skewbald’s owner had already noted his return. The ponies crossed the road looking down on Longwater, and passed a night among the lush bottoms. The next day they wandered eastwards over Matley Heath. As they approached the railway embankment to cross under the forest viaduct, they passed an area of a few acres, which would have looked strangely familiar to millions of men of military age. During the war the trench mortar force had used the place as a training-ground, and at every few yards a hole gaped, several feet across and a yard deep.

That afternoon the herd was again at the ford, having completed their circular tour.