The polo pony is becoming such an important and conspicuous feature in modern life that a short article upon his nature, training, and habits may be interesting to those who either hope to make his acquaintance on his native range, or to import him for use in riding or driving, or in playing that most exciting of all games.

The bicycle is said to be driving horseflesh out of the market, that good horses, even thoroughbreds, are being canned by the thousand, and sent to all parts of the world. This may be a necessary and practical use to which to put that noble animal, the friend and companion of man from all ages; but one cannot help being thankful that the pony has so far escaped this fate, and that the demand for these singularly intelligent, plucky little beasts is growing rather than diminishing.

So long as there are cattle ranges the cow pony will be a necessity. One could not "round up" or "cut out" or "rope" or "corral" on a bicycle or from a self-propelling carriage of any kind, and even if this dreadful day should come and the cow pony lose his prestige, the polo pony will still have his place in the world of sport, from which the most modern and improved wheel could never dispossess him. The cow pony or polo pony, like the poet and the athlete, is born, not made. Out of a drove of a hundred ponies there may be only twenty-five or less that are good for anything, who have the instinct of sport, the quick eye, steady foot, the grit and endurance of the true sportsman.

A good cow pony is good from the start. He learns, of course, much by experience, but he is not only first-class "material," as they say of football candidates, but a star player from the very first. Running wild with the mares, their mothers, on the big ranges of Texas, Mexico, Montana, and Indian Territory, they grow marvellously fleet of foot, and as hardy as mountain-goats.

When about three years old the ponies—all these horses under fifteen hands high—are taken out of the drove, and broken either for cattle or polo. The process of breaking is not a difficult one, though sometimes troublesome and tedious. The pony is first corralled—that is, driven out of the bunch into a pen by himself—then roped, often thrown, and saddled and bridled. As a rule they make a great show of resistance. They buck, they kick, they rear, they lie down and roll, they run into fences or trees—in short, there is nothing that the instinct of self-defence can prompt that a spirited pony will not do, and persist in doing, until he learns the futility of kicking against the pricks. His spurred and booted rider is prepared for any exhibition of temper or ingenuity that he can devise, and wrestles with him gently but firmly, sticking to his seat until the frantic efforts of the rebellious pony have exhausted themselves. Then, subdued, if not overcome, he is unsaddled and staked out, or tied up for the night, only to go through the same performance the next day.

After several days' experience of the bit and bridle, and the singular persistence of the load upon his back in staying there under all provocation, the pony as a rule gives in—all the sensible ones, at least; the bad-tempered broncos—the chronic buckers and kickers and bolters—fight on spasmodically, and sometimes do not become thoroughly broken, if ever, for weeks. When the pony has once recognized and accepted you as his master, his future usefulness depends very largely upon your treatment of him. If he is ridden hard and handled roughly he will grow rough and unmanageable or mean and uncertain in temper; but if treated gently and kindly he becomes docile and dependable, and as faithful as a dog. He learns to know and love his master very soon, and is as susceptible to flattery and petting as a dog or a woman. Some ranchers, especially those with the reputation of being able to "make a pretty good horse talk," will tell you that their favorite ponies, even when in the pasture, come at their whistle like a dog; but it is not very safe to trust to this devotion and obedience, for the majority are as wild as hawks, and as difficult to catch, and unless one wishes the exercise of a hard chase, it is better to hobble them when the saddle and bridle are taken off and they are left to graze.

In buying ponies, either for polo or cattle, it is well to know the owner's reputation, and how he breaks and handles them, for a good cow-puncher is sure to have good ponies, fast and bridle-wise—"mighty handy," in the vernacular, and trained to stop quickly and hold hard. In roping, a good pony is as strong as any steer, and ought to be able to hold no matter how hard the steer may jerk or pull when the rope is thrown. There are no particular breeds in this country; any small horse on the range is called "bronco" or "pony" indifferently, and they are taken from all classes indiscriminately, being picked out by their size and build, and the polo pony only differs from others by his superior speed and agility, and his record as a cow pony.

The small fleet Arab horses which are sold so much in England for polo have had no early training in cow-practice, but as a breed are very intelligent, very quick, and yet extremely docile.

The Shetland-pony, which is such a favorite with children, is not agile enough for either polo or cattle, and there are all sorts and conditions of ponies that are useful in other respects, but absolutely useless in rounding up or cutting out, or on the polo-grounds.

In advertising for polo ponies one usually sends out a circular stating the necessary requisites: the size—fourteen hands one inch—and the temper and disposition; and it takes a trained eye to pick out the most promising from all those brought for inspection.

A good cutting pony is always safe, and the prices range according to their value in cutting and penning cattle. They can be bought from thirty-five to a hundred and fifty or two hundred dollars, and even up to such fancy prices as five hundred. Some first-class cutting ponies cannot be purchased at any price, for love or money, a cow-puncher or ranch-owner being just as willing to part with his wife and children, his house and land, as with his prize cow pony.

This cutting cattle is a wonderful thing, and a fruitful theme for the tall stories with which the cowboy enlivens the tedium of the many idle hours of his varied and precarious life. "Stuffing the tenderfoot" with Munchausen tales of the marvellous performances of these remarkably clever little animals, or swapping yarns with other gifted companions whose imaginations have never been broken in by the strong hand of truth. But even the stories which are strictly and literally true sound almost incredible to the uninitiated, for the cutting pony shows not only the sagacity and resources of the Scotch collie, but the quickness and agility of the cat, in separating or cutting out the particular cow or steer from the herd which his master indicates, sometimes by riding the pony at her, or by following for a few yards.

The cattle may stampede, the steer or cow may run, double, stick like a burr to the herd, but the clever little pony, cool and keen, heads her off, turns her round, cuts her out, and finally drives her triumphantly into the open, where she can be roped, or into a pen. He separates a cow from her calf, cuts out a steer without even disturbing the others, and uses as much judgment as an experienced man. The cow-puncher gives him his head after the steer has once been selected, and only holds his lasso in readiness to rope him when he has been successfully cut out from the bunch.

A Texas cow-puncher offered once to bet a hundred dollars that his cow pony could, without a bridle, cut any steer from the herd of cattle after he had once understood which one he was to separate. The bet was taken by a tenderfoot, who had sporting spirit enough not even to grudge the money when he saw how cleverly it was done, the little pony going to work, on his own account, with the same skill and judgment the keenest cow-puncher in the country might have shown.

They get to be so fast and sharp, to turn and stop, and head off so quickly, that it is almost bewildering to ride them in a difficult case. Another Texas ranchman, a famous cow-puncher in his day, sold his celebrated cutting pony because it was too fast for him; he was growing too old for the pace.

This cutting-out work shows a pony to better advantage even than the polo game. In heading off he acts more quickly than a man can think, playing the game himself, which in polo is a very undesirable thing.

It is most amusing to watch the businesslike air with which a cutting pony starts in to put a calf, one who is particularly fresh and obstreperous, through a fence or into a pen, or to simply corner him. There is nothing so exasperating as a calf, except, perhaps, a sheep. Was it not John Randolph of Roanoke who maintained that he would walk twenty miles to kick a sheep? Just so cowboys feel about a "fool calf."

A pony, however, when he chooses, can be equally aggravating. As in polo he is sometimes too knowing, so in cutting cattle the very best ones use their superior knowledge to be most exasperating.

They learn to gauge the distance and length of the rope with such certainty that they know just when to stop for the throw; and when they feel lazy and disinclined for the hard work of holding a steer, they fool their master by coming to a stand a yard or two from the cow, and the rope falls that much short.

One first-rate but obstinate cutting pony worked this trick so often that his master was only saved from selling him by the humor of the situation—his appreciation of the joke on himself.

It would be hard to choose from the stories current among cattle-men of their cutting ponies—stories proving how "powerful smart," "plumb human," etc., they are, for they all swear to the same class of what the ignorant might call fiction, but which, in their opinion, does not even come under the head of "tall horse talk."

Perhaps the —Z (bar Z) brand story is a fair example. The cow-puncher assures you seriously that the cutting pony always knows his master's brand, and can pick out a cow with this brand from a mixed herd of any size, and they cite the following anecdote in illustration of this fact:

A certain —Z-brand cutting pony, who was sold after years of experience, continued, in spite of all that his new master could do, to cut out every cow or calf with the —Z brand that he could find in any bunch. His owner was finally indicted for stealing cattle, but pleaded his pony's record in self-defense. The court, sympathising in his peculiar and delicate position, released him with a small fine; but the pony, like Werther's Charlotte, went on cutting —Z cattle to the end of his days, which might mean fifteen, sixteen, or even twenty years, for, if well cared for, they often live that long. Both the cattle and polo ponies are shod, even on the range, and if used hard are generally fed in winter, though grazing all summer. They are ungroomed, and their tails left flowing freely; and their first sensations, after a transfer from their native heath to the luxurious and well-ordered stables of the East, where they are docked, clipped, curried, rubbed down, and blanketed, must be somewhat like those experienced by the tramp who is forcibly bathed and groomed in a model lodging-house, though the polo pony yields to the civilizing influence more readily than does the tramp.

But the comforts of life and even the excitement of polo may seem to the cutting pony a poor exchange for the lost delights of rounding up and penning steers, and what is a Rockaway Cup to the glory of winning the prize in a roping contest at a county fair? These roping contests are the pride of the cattle-men, and the great feature of the Texan county fairs.

The steer is put in a pen, and a man with a flag placed about fifty feet from him. The man on the cutting pony stands near the pen, with the rope ready. And at a given signal the steer is let out, and as he passes the flag it is dropped, the pony dashes after him, and the man who can rope, throw, and tie the steer in the shortest time wins the prize. It has been done in twenty seconds, but the average time is about a minute; any duffer, they say, can do it inside of five minutes. It is a dangerous method of roping, and is only used in contests, never on the range, for the pony is going at full speed, and the rope is thrown as he shoots by the steer, the rider giving it a little fling and jerk on the off side, and it is a close call whether the steer throws the pony or the pony the steer.

The prize cow ponies are the ones most sought after for polo. They make by far the best and most steady and reliable playing ponies. The training for polo is of course different from that employed in roping cattle, but a good cow pony has all the necessary qualifications, and learns the game very quickly.

In order to accustom them to the mallet, one rides for several days simply carrying it and waving it about, but not attempting to hit the ball. The pony jumps at first, and is very nervous, but gradually grows used to it, and after about ten days of flourishing the mallet round the head and tapping the ball gently he is ready for the game with its fierce scrimmage. As the warrior in olden times donned his armor—his helmet, breastplate, greaves, and shield—before going to war, and as his modern prototype, the football-player, prepares for battle with shoulder and thigh pads, head and ear bandages, elastic knee and ankle-bands, nose and teeth guards, so the polo pony is made ready for his part in the great contest, being booted to the knees in heavy leather leggings, which protect him from the blows of the mallet. A few ponies, the very nervous or stupid ones, wear blinders, but as a general rule they are played without them, and being able to see on either side gives them a decided advantage.

With the light English saddle instead of the heavy Mexican monstrosity which is universally used in roping cattle, the pony is led out, blanketed by the groom, who is as careful of the condition of his polo ponies as a jockey is of his race-horse. They are exercised regularly when not playing, and given as much food as they will eat, and the knowing little ponies are well aware of their true value, as one learns in hearing polo men talk, or in reading Mr. Kipling's story of the Maltese Cat.

As is the case in all fields of sport, the pony who plays for the gallery is not nearly so useful in the long-run as the quiet, sensible, steady ones who do not try to show off or play the whole game themselves. Sometimes the high-strung, nervous ponies are the very best, the quickest, and brightest, but they require most careful handling, and are apt to get flighty, to have "wheels in their heads," and to want to run, or they show every sign of equine nervous prostration. The dispositions of the ponies are as varied as those of the superior animal, man. They can be stubborn or yielding, uncertain or even-tempered, tricky or steady, plucky or cowardly, nervous or phlegmatic. They are ambitious, conceited, lazy, timid—in short, there is no human trait of character that they do not at times exhibit.

Some ponies play very well at first, and then seem to lose their nerve, and are never good for anything again.

When you know your pony's temper to be uncertain, the most cautious handling is necessary. At the first symptom of becoming wicked it is better to give in and get off.

A very fine polo pony belonging to Mr. Keene was entered in a contest in one of the horse shows. The ponies had to go in and out between posts in order to show how quickly they turned, and how well they minded the rein. After three rounds, and before the final one, Mr. Keene quietly jumped off and led his pony out of the ring. In explanation, he said that his pony had made up his mind to be nasty, and simply wouldn't go; he might spur or whip him till he was tired, but it would be of no use when he had once become exasperated and stopped short.

The same sort of temper was shown in a match at Newport. It was very close and exciting, when suddenly one of the best ponies on the ground balked. His rider could not make him budge. Time was finally called, and it took eight men five minutes to get that stubborn little beast off the field.

Outside of this uncertain temper, the most incurable faults in a polo pony are shying, and stopping on the ball instead of following, and not turning quickly enough.

They are plucky as a rule, but some ponies will play very well alone, be sharp, and turn and stop in splendid form, but will not go into a game with other ponies; the crowd seems to frighten and distress them.

Others will play a fine open game, but refuse a scrimmage, while a scrimmage is to some the cream of the whole game, and they will never give way, no matter how hard others bear against them, but stand like a Yale or Princeton line in the teeth of an onslaught.

In a hard match ponies are only played for about seven minutes, they get so winded; but often they go off the field most reluctantly, and chafe to get back into the game.

The majority of polo ponies really seem to enjoy it, and in spite of injuries and bad accidents, to enter into it with the zest of a true sportsman; and the stories of their grit and endurance ought to go down in history side by side with the tales of old war-horses and famous cavalry chargers.

A game little pony named Ink was struck by a mallet in a scrimmage, and though his master knew that he had been hit, the pony showed no signs of being badly hurt, until the goal they were trying for was made, and then he stood still, refusing to move. Two men and a boy tried to make him walk, but could not, and they found that his leg was broken just below the knee, and he was suffering so that they were obliged to shoot him on the spot.

Another pony fell only the other day, and broke his neck without uttering a sound, only beseeching them with his eyes to put an end to his pain.

One could multiply examples of their heroism indefinitely, if it did not seem to imply that the game was brutal. That is emphatically not the case, though, as in all branches of athletics there are possibilities of accidents more or less serious.

The object of this article, however, has been not the glorification, justification, or explanation of the game of polo, but to give a brief history of the noble little pony who plays it, and so long as he thoroughly enjoys the excitement of the sport one cannot feel that he is to be pitied, and one may wish him a long and prosperous career, and a future even greater than his past.