Is it less
cruel that a fine old rocking-horse should be thrust from the nursery
out into the open air, upon the pavement?
Perhaps some child had just given the horse a contemptuous shove in
passing. For he was rocking gently when I chanced to see him. Nor did
he cease to rock, with a slight creak upon the pavement, so long as I
watched him. A particularly black and bitter north wind was blowing
round the corner of the street. Perhaps it was this that kept the
horse in motion. Boreas himself, invisible to my mortal eyes, may have
been astride the saddle, lashing the tired old horse to this futile
activity. But no, I think rather that the poor thing was rocking of
his own accord, rocking to attract my attention. He saw in me a
possible purchaser. He wanted to show me that he was still sound in
wind and limb. Had I a small son at home? If so, here was the very
mount for him. None of your frisky, showy, first-hand young brutes, on
which no fond parent ought to risk his offspring's bones; but a sound,
steady-going, well-mannered old hack with never a spark of vice in
him! Such was the message that I read in the glassy eye fixed on me.
The nostril of faded scarlet seemed for a moment to dilate and quiver.
At last, at last, was some one going to inquire his price?
Once upon a time, in a far-off fashionable toy-shop, his price had
been prohibitive; and he, the central attraction behind the gleaming
shop-window, had plumed himself on his expensiveness.
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