Free Pit Pony by Joyce Barkhouse Page A

Gem’s baby should be called ‘Jewel,’” said Maggie.
    â€œNo. That would be a funny name for a boy horse,” protested Sara.
    â€œGem came from Sable Island,” said Ned. “Maybe you could call it ‘Sable.’”
    Willie sat up. “‘Sable’ is the French word for ‘sand,’” he said. “I like that. We could call it ‘Sandy.’” Then he flopped back on his pillow, and added, angrily, “What’s the sense of talkin’ about a name? The foal will live all its life in the pits. You girls will never see it.”
    Into his mind’s eye came the picture of the newborn foals he had seen in the Green Bay stables. He could see them struggling up to balance themselves on their wobbly new legs, nudging their mothers, looking for milk.
    â€œGem is dead! How can the foal live without any milk from its mother?” he cried.
    â€œThey’ll use a baby’s nursing bottle. Didn’t you know that?” said Sara.
    â€œRight,” said Ned. “The foal will be all right, don’t you worry. And maybe it won’t stay in the mine. Some say, now, that machinery can do the work of horses. Some day, there won’t be no horses in mines.”
    Willie sat up again. “Is that true?” he demanded.
    John answered, “Yes. I’ve heard a lot of talk about electric power and new kinds of machinery.”
    Willie tried to imagine what a mine would be like without horses. “Won’t they need people, neither?”
    Both men laughed. “Ya hafta have people to run the machinery, b’y. There’ll always be colliers. But the work will be different, that’s for sure.”
    Nellie said, “Anyway, it hasn’t happened yet.”
    She folded the last flour-bag pillowcase.
    â€œIt’s time for supper. Think you can come to the table for some fried potatoes, Willie?”
    â€œOh, we forgot to tell you,” said John. “Ned’s goin’ to stay here. I mean — he’s going to be our boarder. That’s if you don’t mind sleepin’ on a straw mat on the hall floor.”
    Willie’s face brightened. “A boarder? He’s gonna stay here? A’course I don’t mind!”
    And he discovered, in spite of his grief, he was able to eat two helpings of fried potatoes.
    Late in the afternoon of the next day, Ned moved in. Along with his few belongings he brought two codfish heads. Nellie made ceann groppaig for supper, to celebrate.
    Maggie and Sara had just finished washing the dishes, and John had turned down the lamp wick to save kerosene when there was a sudden great commotion outside in the street. Bells jangled and people shouted. Then came a loud, horrible, rattling sound.
    Maggie and Sara rushed to the window. Grandma got up from her rocking chair.
    â€œIt sounds like Oidhche Na Calluinn ,*” she exclaimed.
    *eye’ yuh nuh cal’ lin
    â€œYou’re right!” said John, peering over the heads of the little girls.
    â€œI wonder who it’s for?” said Willie, coming from behind and trying to see.
    Maggie was first to guess. “I think it’s for us,” she said.
    Even little Sara knew about the old Scottish custom of bringing food and a blessing to a household in trouble. She listened in solemn wonder with the others, as the parade circled their house three times. The horrible rattling sounds were made by people beating on dried sheepskins. The leader, who had a woolly skin pulled over his head for a disguise, stopped at the door and shouted out the words of the Duan Na Calluinn .* When he came to the last lines, John opened the door.
    * dan’ nuh cal’ lin
    Friends and neighbours shouted greetings and jostled each other as they entered the house. Each one brought a gift of food — potatoes and onions, turnips, mutton, and beef. All went into a big canvas bag held open by the leader, whose face was still