[He nosed around among all the flags until he found the one he knew he wanted, and with that in his teeth he trotted over to Mr. Drake.]

Kneetime Animal Stories

TINKLE
THE TRICK PONY

HIS MANY ADVENTURES

BY

RICHARD BARNUM

Author of “Squinty, the Comical Pig,” “Mappo, the
Merry Monkey,” “Tum Tum, the Jolly Elephant,”
“Don, a Runaway Dog,” “Flop Ear, the
Funny Rabbit,” etc.

ILLUSTRATED BY

WALTER S. ROGERS

PUBLISHERS
BARSE & HOPKINS
NEW YORK, N. Y. NEWARK, N. J.

Copyright, 1917
by
Barse & Hopkins

Tinkle, The Trick Pony

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

TINKLE,
THE TRICK PONY

CHAPTER I
TINKLE IN THE SWAMP

Tinkle stopped nibbling the sweet, green grass of the meadow, blew a long breath from his nose, raised his head and looked around. Then he blinked his eyes slowly, turned to look first on one side, then on the other, and to himself he said:

“I’m going to run away!”

He did not say this aloud for fear some of the other ponies or the horses would hear him. Oh! I forgot to tell you that Tinkle was a little pony, that lived in the big green meadow; and, being a pony, of course Tinkle ate grass, and liked it, too.

So, as I said, Tinkle stopped eating the grass and said to himself once more:

“I’m going to run away!”

The reason Tinkle did not want the other ponies and the horses to know what he was going to do was because his mother and father were over in one corner of the meadow, and if they knew he intended to run away, they would not let him do it; any more than your mother or father would let you run away.

Of course I know that horses sometimes run away when they are frightened by something, and I suppose ponies, too, may, once in a while, trot off when they ought not. But that isn’t saying it is right.

“Yes,” said Tinkle to himself, “I’m going to run away. I’m tired of staying in this meadow all the while. Why, I’ve been here over a year now, and there hasn’t a thing happened except a thunder storm now and then, or a rain shower. I want to see something more than that. I want to have some fun, and go off to a big city, such as the other horses tell about.

“Why, there’s Dapple Gray,” went on Tinkle, looking at an old horse who had come to the green meadow for a long rest. “I’ve heard Dapple tell stories about drawing a big shiny wagon that spouted fire and smoke just like the chimney on the house where The Man lives. That was great! I’d like to pull the kind of wagon Dapple tells about, and hear the bells ring and see the sparks fly and the water spout out on the fire. I wonder what kind of wagon it was?”

Of course you have guessed. It was a fire engine that Dapple Gray had pulled, and he never tired of telling the other horses about it.

Tinkle used often to listen to the stories Dapple Gray and the other horses told as they gathered in the shade of the clump of trees in the green meadow after their dinner or their breakfast of sweet, green grass.

For Tinkle lived on what is called a stock farm, not far from a big city. The farm was owned by a person whom the horses called “The Man.” Really his name was John Carter and he raised horses and ponies to sell to other men.

Mr. Carter liked his horses very much, and was very kind to them, and he loved his little ponies, of whom Tinkle was one. The ponies and the horses lived in a warm barn in the Winter, but in the Summer they were “turned out to grass,” and could walk or run all over the big meadow, and do almost as they pleased.

Sometimes men would come to the stock farm to buy horses. They might want one to pull a coal wagon or a wagon from which vegetables were sold. Some of the horses, like Dapple, were used to haul fire engines, while others pulled fine carriages in which rode men and women. The ponies were sold, too, but they were only put to such easy work as carrying boys and girls around on their backs, or pulling little carriages in the parks.

“But nothing like that ever happened to me,” said Tinkle as he began slowly to walk away. “So I’m going to run off, as far as I can go, and maybe I’ll have some adventures like Dapple Gray.”

Tinkle had eaten plenty of the sweet, green grass, so he was no longer hungry. He did not need to take anything to eat with him when he ran away. In the first place ponies have no pockets in which to carry anything, though, of course, if they are hitched to a wagon, that would hold corn, hay or oats which ponies like to eat.

But, as for that, all round in the meadow where Tinkle lived was grass to eat. He had only to stop and nibble some when he was hungry, so he had no need to carry anything with him.

“There is more here than I could eat all Summer,” thought the little pony. “And when I get tired of running away I can just rest myself, eat grass and then run on some more.”

Though Tinkle called it “running away” he was really walking. Just as some children do when they start to run away, they don’t run at all, but walk.

One reason why Tinkle did not care to run was that he did not want his father, mother or the other ponies or the horses to see him. They might not notice him if he just walked, but if he started to run some one would be sure to ask:

“Why, where is that Tinkle pony going now?”

And then Tinkle’s mother would look up and say:

“Oh, dear! That silly little pony will get into trouble! I must go and bring him back.”

Then she would run after Tinkle, and all his fun would be spoiled. Of course the ponies and horses in the meadow used often to run about, kick up their heels and roll over and over on their backs in the soft grass. But this was only because they felt so good and frisky and lively that they simply could not do anything else.

But when the colts ran that way, they nearly always went around in a circle, like a merry-go-round, only bigger, and the father and mother horses thought nothing of that.

“I’m not going to run that way,” said Tinkle to himself. “I’m going far off.”

By this time he was quite away from the other horses. But, as he looked back, he saw them all standing in a circle with their noses close together. Dapple Gray was in the center of the ring, and Tinkle’s father and mother were among those on the outside.

“Dapple is telling another story about how he drew the funny wagon with the chimney on,” thought Tinkle. “I don’t want to hear that again.”

Ponies and horses, you know, can talk among themselves and think, just as we can, only, of course, they can’t think quite as much perhaps, nor as hard. But if they could not talk among themselves how could the mother pony tell the little pony what was good to eat and what not? So, though horses and ponies can’t talk to us in words as we talk to one another, they do speak among themselves.

You have often heard horses and ponies whinny, I suppose; and perhaps that is when they are trying to talk to us, though I must say I never could understand what they were trying to say. Perhaps some day I may.

At any rate Tinkle was thinking to himself, as he slowly wandered across the meadow. He was thinking what wonderful things might happen to him—adventures and travels.

On and on he wandered, looking back now and then to make sure neither his father nor his mother nor any of the others saw him. But they were listening to Dapple Gray tell of once falling down in the street while drawing the fire engine and how nearly a trolley car ran over him.

And the other horses liked the story so much that none of them thought of Tinkle, or looked at him. They listened to Dapple Gray.

The other young ponies, many of whom were about the size of Tinkle, were down at the far end of the meadow, having a game of what you would, perhaps, call tag, though what the ponies called it I do not know. Probably they had some funny name among themselves like “hoof-jump” or “tail-wiggle,” or something like that.

Anyhow, they were having so much fun among themselves that none of them paid any attention to Tinkle.

“They won’t see me at all,” thought the little pony. “I’ll run away where they can never find me.”

Of course Tinkle was not doing this to be bad, but he was just tired of staying in one place so long, and he wanted to have adventures.

On and on he wandered, and finally he came to a fence. Now the fence was put around the meadow to keep the horses and the ponies from getting out. But Tinkle had heard stories of horses jumping fences so he thought he would try it; for he was not strong enough to push down the fence, as he had once heard of Bellow, the big black bull, doing.

Standing off a little way from the fence Tinkle ran toward it, gave a jump up in the air, and then—he did not get over the fence. Instead he fell against it and hurt himself.

“Ha! that is no fun!” thought Tinkle. “I must jump higher next time.” [And the next time he did jump high enough to go over the fence], coming down on the other side, kerplunk!

“At last I have really run away,” thought the little pony.

He found himself in another green meadow, but it was not as nice as the one he had left. The grass was longer, but it was hard and tough, and hurt Tinkle’s mouth and tongue when he chewed it.

“But I don’t have to eat it,” said the little pony. “I can wait until I get to where there is better grass. I’m not very hungry.”

So he walked on a little farther, and pretty soon he came to some trees. In and out among them he wandered, and when he stopped to look back he found that he could no longer see the meadow in which he had lived so long with his father, his mother and the other ponies and the horses.

“And they can’t see me, either,” thought Tinkle. “They won’t know where I’ve gone, so they can’t find me. I’m going to have a good time all by myself, and there’ll be nobody to say: ‘Don’t do this. Don’t do that’; as they always do when I’m in the green meadow.”

On and on went Tinkle and soon he was quite a long distance from what had been his home. Then he noticed that the ground, instead of being hard and firm under his hoofs, was getting soft and springy, and that his feet sank down in it a little way. He saw, too, that when he lifted his hoofs from the marks they left little pools of water in the holes they made.

“This is queer,” thought Tinkle. “I must be getting near the lake I have heard my father tell about. I wonder if I can swim?”

Tinkle looked about, and just ahead he saw a puddle of water. It was too small for a lake, but there was enough of it for him to splash in, and, as he was now thirsty, he ran on to get a drink. And then a queer thing happened.

Just before Tinkle reached the water he felt his legs and hoofs sinking down in the soft ground. He tried to lift his left front foot, but could not. And his right hind foot was also stuck fast.

“Oh, dear! What has happened to me?” cried poor Tinkle. “I can’t move!”

And really he could not. Tinkle was caught fast in the sticky mud of a big swamp!

CHAPTER II
TINKLE MAKES TROUBLE

Dapple Gray had just finished telling the story of his being caught under the trolley car, the time he was drawing the fire engine.

“And so,” went on the old horse, “men came and pushed the car off my legs. The firemen loosened my harness and then I could get up.”

“Weren’t you hurt?” asked Mrs. Chestnut, who was called that because she was colored brown.

“Well, my legs were a bit scratched, and I had some bruises on my side, but I could still run and pull the engine. You see we horses couldn’t stop whenever we wanted to. We had to pull the funny chimney-wagon to where the fire was blazing so the men could squirt water on it.

“Men are queer,” went on Dapple Gray. “They’ll build a big fire in a house so the house almost burns up, and then they’ll make us horses run like mad to draw water to put it out. I never could understand it.”

Of course Dapple Gray did not know that the house caught fire by accident and that it had to be put out for fear other houses near it might burn.

“And so you ran on, even if your legs were cut?” asked Tinkle’s father.

“Oh, yes, of course,” replied Dapple Gray. “The cuts hurt me, but when I got back to the stable the firemen put some cooling salve on the wounds and bound my legs up with white rags so they felt better.”

“Well, I don’t believe I’d like that,” said Tinkle’s mother. “Life is too exciting in the city. I like it best in this quiet country meadow, where you can eat grass whenever you like, or rest in the shade when you are tired.”

“Look at those ponies having fun down there,” said another horse, pointing with his nose toward the group that was playing tag. “I remember when I was young I liked to play that way.”

“Is Tinkle there?” asked the pony’s father. “He is one of the best taggers I’ve ever seen. When he grows a little bigger he’ll be a fine racer, I think.”

Tinkle’s mother looked toward where the ponies were running about, touching one another with their hoofs or noses, or switching at one another with their frisky tails.

“I don’t see Tinkle,” she said.

“Oh, he must be there,” said Tinkle’s father. “I’ll go and look.”

Off he trotted to where the other colts were playing. He looked at them for a little while, but he did not see Tinkle among them.

“That’s queer,” thought the father pony. “Tinkle likes tag so much, I wonder why he isn’t here?”

He stood still, looking more closely, to make sure he had not missed the little pony; but no, Tinkle was not there.

“I’ll ask some of them,” said the father pony to himself. So, giving a loud whinny, to make himself heard above the noise the tag-playing ponies were making, the father pony asked:

“Have any of you seen our Tinkle?”

“No, I haven’t,” said a little brown pony.

“Nor I,” added one who was speckled brown and white.

“I saw him a while ago, eating grass,” answered a third.

“He hasn’t been playing tag with us this morning,” added a fourth pony, who had a very long tail.

“I wonder where Tinkle can be,” murmured his father.

Then up spoke a little pony with a white spot on his back.

“I saw Tinkle going over that way,” he said, and he raised his hoof and pointed toward a fence on the far side of the field.

“Did you really see him going that way?” asked the father pony.

“I really did,” answered the little pony.

“Oh my! That’s too bad!” thought Tinkle’s father to himself, but he did not say this to the ponies, for he did not want to frighten them. Well did the older pony know of the dangerous swamp that was on the other side of the fence.

“If he is in the sticky bog-mud we’ll have trouble getting him out,” said the father pony to himself. “I must go back and tell some of the others. But I don’t want Tinkle’s mother to know. What shall I do?”

The father pony trotted back to where Dapple Gray and the others stood.

“Well, was he there?” asked Tinkle’s mother.

Tinkle’s father shook his head.

“Where is he then?”

“Oh, he probably went off for a little walk by himself. I’ll go and find him,” and he tried to speak easily.

“But I don’t see him anywhere!” and the mother pony looked anxiously about the big green meadow. She could see every corner of it, and Tinkle was not in sight.

“Now you just stay here, and I’ll bring him back,” said Tinkle’s father quietly. At the same time he nodded his head at Dapple Gray and one or two of the other men-horses, and two or three of his closest friends among the men-ponies. They moved away together. Tinkle’s mother looked at them as if to say:

“I wonder if anything could have happened?”

“What’s the matter?” asked Dapple Gray in a low voice of Tinkle’s father, speaking in horse-talk, of course.

“I’m not sure, but I’m afraid Tinkle has jumped the fence and has gone over to the big swampy bog,” was the answer. “If he has, and is stuck fast, we’ll have to go and get him out. But I don’t want his mother to know it.”

The men-animals walked over toward the fence. Tinkle’s father looked down at the ground. He saw little hoof marks.

“Yes, Tinkle has been here,” he said. “I can see where he ran to get a good start so he could jump over the fence.”

“He is a good jumper to do that,” remarked one of the horses.

“Yes, Tinkle is a good jumper, for a colt,” said his father. “I think he will be very smart when he grows up. But he should not jump fences into the swamp. That is not right.”

“How are we going to get over the fence to help him if he is stuck?” asked Dapple Gray.

“Can’t we jump?” another horse inquired.

“Maybe you can, but I can’t,” returned Dapple Gray. “One of my legs is stiff, where I was hurt by the trolley car. Once I could easily have jumped over that fence, but I’m afraid I can’t do it now.”

“I don’t know whether I can either,” observed Tinkle’s father. “I’m not so young as I once was. But if we all push together I think we can knock the fence down. Then we can get through to see what has happened to my pony boy. We want you to come along, Dapple, because you have been in the big city where all sorts of things happen to horses. You’ll know what is best to do.”

“Thank you,” whinnied Dapple Gray. “I’ll do my best.”

Together the big horses and the ponies pushed at the fence. Tinkle’s mother watched them, and when she saw what was being done she became frightened.

“Something dreadful must have happened to Tinkle,” she said. “I can’t stay here. I’m going to see what it is.”

So she began to run toward the men-animals. By this time they were giving a second push to the fence, and, as they were very strong, they knocked off some boards so they could get through.

“Now we’ll see what has happened to Tinkle,” said his father. “Tinkle! Tinkle! Where are you?” he called.

But Tinkle did not answer, for he was far away in the swamp, and just then he was splashing around in the mud and water trying to pull loose his feet from the sticky place.

“We’ll have to go farther on into the swamp,” said Dapple Gray, when they had waited a minute to see if Tinkle would answer.

“But we must be careful,” said one horse, slowly picking his steps. “This is soft ground here. See how deep my hoofs sink.”

“Indeed it is a bad place,” agreed Tinkle’s father. “I hope nothing happens to us. Be careful, every one.”

Slowly the horses and the ponies walked along, picking out the hardest and firmest ground they could find on which to step, especially the horses, for they were, of course, heavier than the most grown-up pony. Now and then all stopped to listen, and Tinkle’s father would call the pony’s name. At last one of the horses said:

“Hark! I think I heard something.”

They all listened. Through the trees of the swamp came a call:

“Help me! Help me!”

“That’s Tinkle!” cried his father. “We’re coming, Tinkle. Where are you?” he asked.

[And the next time he did jump high enough to go over the fence.]

“I’m over here, and I’m stuck in the swamp. I can’t get my feet out of the mud!”

“I thought so!” exclaimed Dapple Gray. “Just like a foolish little pony! Now we must get him out.”

So anxious was he to help his little pony that Tinkle’s father galloped on ahead. Some of the others did the same. They did not listen to Dapple calling:

“Wait! Be careful! Look out or you’ll be caught in the swamp yourselves!”

On and on ran Tinkle’s father and the others. They could tell which way to go by hearing Tinkle’s voice calling to them, just as your dog can tell where you are, even though he can not see you, when he hears you whistling to him.

“There he is! I see him!” cried Tinkle’s father as he came in sight of the pool of water, on the edge of which the pony was stuck in the mud.

“We’re coming! We’re coming, Tinkle!” he cried.

Then something dreadful happened. Tinkle’s father, and four or five of his friends, became stuck in the swamp mud also. Their feet sank away down, for they were heavier than Tinkle, and, try as they did, they could not lift themselves out.

“Oh!” cried Tinkle’s father. “We are caught too!”

Only Dapple Gray had not been caught. He had run slowly, fearing something like this might happen.

Just see what trouble Tinkle made by running away! For it was really his fault that the other ponies and the horses became mired, though of course Tinkle had not meant to do wrong. He had not thought; but often not thinking makes as much trouble as doing something on purpose.

“Help! Help!” cried Tinkle’s father. “We are caught in the mud too.”

“Oh, dear!” whinnied Tinkle.

Dapple Gray saw what the matter was.

“Keep quiet, all of you!” he said. “The more you flop about, the deeper you will sink in the mud. I’ll go and get The Man to come with ropes and pull you out. He and his helpers are the only ones who can save you now. This is no work for us horses alone. I’ll go for help.”

And, leaving Tinkle and the others stuck in the swamp, back to the green meadow ran Dapple Gray.

CHAPTER III
TINKLE AND GEORGE

Dapple Gray, running toward the hole which the horses had made by pushing against the fence, met Tinkle’s mother going into the swamp.

“Oh, my dear lady!” exclaimed the old fire horse, “you must not go in there! You really must not!”

“Why?” asked Tinkle’s mother. “Oh, I’m sure something dreadful has happened! Tell me what it is. Is Tinkle—Is Tinkle—” and she could not ask any more.

“Now, it isn’t as bad as you think,” said Dapple Gray. “Horses and ponies have been caught in the swamp before. I remember when I was a young colt I—”

“Oh, is my little Tinkle caught in the bog?” asked his mother.

“Yes, I am sorry to say he is, and so are some of the other ponies and horses—Tinkle’s father among them,” said Dapple Gray. “But don’t be worried. All they will have to do will be to stay there until we can get The Man to come with ropes and pull them out. They won’t be a bit the worse for the adventure after they wash the mud off. Now please don’t go in there, my dear lady-horse, or you might get stuck too; and goodness knows there is trouble enough!”

“Oh, I am so sorry Tinkle made trouble!” exclaimed his mother. “He is usually such a good little pony—”

“Oh well, boys will be boys!” exclaimed Dapple Gray, or he said something about like that which meant the same thing. And you all know how frisky colts are; always kicking up their heels and never knowing where they are going to land.

“Of course Tinkle didn’t do exactly right in running away and making this trouble,” said Dapple Gray in a kind voice. “But then it will be a lesson to him, and he won’t do it again, I’m sure.”

“I should think once would be enough,” sighed his mother. “But are you sure I can not do anything to help?”

“Not in there,” said Dapple Gray, nodding his head toward the swamp. “But you can come with me, if you like, and we’ll go to get The Man to help pull Tinkle and the others out of the swamp.”

“Yes, I’ll do that!” whinnied Tinkle’s mother.

So she and Dapple Gray ran back to the green meadow.

“What is it? What is it?” asked all the other animals that were waiting by the hole in the fence. These were the horses and the ponies who had not gone into the swamp.

Dapple Gray quickly told them of the trouble. At the same time he said:

“Don’t any of you go in there. The ground is too soft now and if a lot of you horses trample on it that will make it so much the softer, and The Man and his friends will have trouble getting in with their ropes and boards. So please keep out.”

The horses promised they would, while Dapple Gray and Tinkle’s mother ran as fast as they could across the meadow. They wanted to get to the long lane which led to the barn, not far from which was the house where lived “The Man,” as the horses called Mr. John Carter, the stock dealer.

“How are we going to tell him that Tinkle and the others are in the mire?” asked the pony’s mother. “We can’t talk man-talk, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” said Dapple Gray. “But I guess I can find a way to make him understand. I know what I’ll do,” he said, as he galloped on. “I’ll pick up a piece of rope in the barn and take it to The Man in my teeth. He’ll know that means we want him to bring other ropes and get the horses out of the swamp.”

“I hope he will understand,” said Tinkle’s mother.

“Oh, I think he will,” replied Dapple Gray, hopefully.

As they ran past the barn, the big doors of which were open, the old fire horse trotted inside. He looked about, and on the floor he saw a piece of rope. Picking this up in his teeth, Dapple Gray, with Tinkle’s mother, ran on toward the house. Out in the back yard stood Mr. Carter talking to some of his hands.

“Look!” suddenly called one of the men. “Some of the horses are out of the meadow. They’re coming here!”

“So they are!” ejaculated Mr. Carter. “I wonder what that means.”

“And Dapple Gray has a rope in his teeth,” went on the man.

“Why, so he has!” exclaimed Mr. Carter. “I wonder what that means.”

Right up to where the stock breeder and his men stood ran Dapple Gray and Tinkle’s mother. The old fire horse stretched out his neck and shook his head up and down, the rope flapping to and fro. He seemed to be offering it to Mr. Carter.

“Ha! Dapple wants something,” said the stockman. “I wonder what it is. I wish he could talk.”

And then Dapple Gray did something which was almost as good as talking. He rubbed the rope that was in his mouth against Mr. Carter’s hand, and then, dropping it at his feet, took hold of the man’s coat in his teeth. Then the old fire horse began to pull gently, just as often a dog, when it finds some one in danger, will try to lead somebody to the place to help.

“Why!” cried the surprised Mr. Carter. “I believe Dapple wants me to come with him.”

“That’s what he does!” exclaimed one of the hands.

“But what about the rope?” asked another.

“Maybe he wants me to bring that, too,” observed the stockman. “I wonder if anything can have happened to the horses?”

“I’ll go and take a look,” offered Mr. Carter’s overseer. He quickly ran to a place where he could look down into the green meadow.

“What is it?” asked Mr. Carter.

“All the horses seem to be over near a hole in the fence,” the man reported. “And some seem to be missing. I don’t see that little pony, Tinkle, anywhere.”

“Whew!” whistled Mr. Carter. “Something certainly has happened. This is Tinkle’s mother,” he went on, looking at Dapple’s companion.

“Wouldn’t it be queer if Tinkle were in trouble, and she had come to get you to help him?” asked the overseer.

And of course you and I know that is just what Tinkle’s mother did want, but the stockman and his helpers did not know that yet.

“I think I see what the trouble is!” suddenly cried Mr. Carter. “Some of the animals must have broken down the fence and gotten into the swamp! They’re mired there! We must get ropes and haul them out. Smart horse, is Dapple to tell me that! I’ll come right away. Come on, men! Lively now.”

The man ran toward the barn for ropes, led by Mr. Carter. Though Dapple and Tinkle’s mother could not understand what the men said, they knew that help would soon be carried to Tinkle and the others held fast in the mud. They trotted along after the men, who were talking among themselves.

Of course horses and ponies understand some man-talk, else how would they know they are to stop when a man says “Whoa!” or to start when they hear “Gid-dap!” or to back when told to do so. But it takes a little time for a horse to get to know these words, just as it does your dog to know you want him to run toward you when you say: “Come here!” or go back when you point toward home, and tell him to go there.

“Things will be all right now,” said Dapple Gray to Tinkle’s mother, using horse-talk, of course. “The Man will soon have all the horses and ponies out of the bog.”

“Oh, I’m so glad you thought of a way to tell him,” said Tinkle’s mother.

Taking some ropes and planks out of the barn, Mr. Carter and his men ran on toward the green meadow. It did not take them long to reach the broken fence.

“Here’s where the rascals got through to the swamp!” cried Mr. Carter. “I must make the fence much stronger.”

Of course he did not know that Tinkle had made all the trouble by first jumping over the fence. The others had only broken it down to go to help the boy-pony.

“Come on!” cried the stockman. “That bog is a bad place. If they sink down too far we’ll never be able to get them up again. Come on, I say!”

On ran the men with the planks and the ropes. They soon came to the place where the horses and ponies were mired, as it is called.

“Tinkle is in deeper than any of them,” said Mr. Carter. “We must get him out first.”

The men laid down the wide planks. The pieces of wood were so broad that they did not sink down in the soft mud, any more than wide snow shoes will sink down when an Indian, or any man, walks on them.

Then, standing on the planks, the men put ropes about Tinkle and began to pull on them. They also laid down planks near him so that when he got one foot out of the mire he could put it on a plank and it would not sink down again.

After some hard work and much pulling on the ropes, which hurt the little pony, Tinkle was pulled out of the swamp, and led to firm, dry ground, back in the meadow.

“And now you’d better stay there,” said Mr. Carter. “Don’t try a thing like this again.”

“No indeed, you must never do it again!” said Tinkle’s mother, for she could tell by Mr. Carter’s voice that he was, in a way, scolding the pony. “See what a lot of trouble you made your father and me, as well as Dapple Gray and our other friends,” said Tinkle’s mother.

“I—I’m sorry,” said the little pony. “I’m never going to run away again.”

“And see how muddy and dirty you are,” went on his mother. “You had better go to the brook and wash yourself.”

“Oh, let me stay and watch them get my father and the others out of the swamp,” begged Tinkle, so his mother let him stay.

It was not quite so hard to get the others out as it had been to save Tinkle, for they were not so deep in the mud. But it took Mr. Carter and his men quite a while. Finally, however, the ponies and the horses were all saved from the swamp.

“And I hope they never get caught that way again,” said the stockman, while Tinkle and the ponies and the horses hoped the same thing.

After the mud was washed off them, the animals were not much worse off for what had happened. Tinkle was sorry and ashamed for all the trouble he had caused, and he told the other ponies and his horse-friends so.

For some time after this Tinkle lived with his father, mother and friends in the green meadow. He played with the other children-ponies, but he did not try to run away again. He did want to have some adventures, though, and he was soon to have some very strange ones.

One day, about a year later, a rich man called at the stock farm to buy a horse for his carriage. With the man, who was a Mr. Farley, was his son George, about nine years old.

“Yes, I have some good carriage horses,” said Mr. Carter to Mr. Farley. “Suppose you come down to the meadow and pick out the one you like best.”

“May I come too?” asked George.

“Yes, I think so,” answered his father. “The horses won’t kick; will they?” he questioned.

“Oh, not at all,” answered Mr. Carter. “They are all gentle.”

So George went with his father to look at the horses. But no sooner had the little boy caught sight of the ponies than he cried:

“Oh, see the little horses. I want one of them. Please, Daddy, buy me a pony!”

“Eh? What’s that? Buy you a pony!” cried his father, half teasing. “Why you couldn’t ride a pony.”

“Oh, yes I could!” said the little boy. “Anyhow I could drive him hitched to a pony cart.”

“But we haven’t a pony cart.”

“Well, couldn’t you get one? Oh, please get me a pony, Daddy!”

“Ah, um! Well, which one would you want, if you could have one?” asked Mr. Farley, half in fun.

George looked over the ponies who were cropping grass not far away. The boy’s eyes rested longest on Tinkle, for Tinkle was a pretty pony, with four white feet and a white star right in the middle of his head.

“This is the pony I want!” cried George, and, before his father could stop him the boy ran straight to Tinkle and put his arms around the pony’s neck.

CHAPTER IV
TINKLE’S NEW HOME

“George! George! Come away!” cried his father. “That pony may kick or bite you!”

“Oh, no, Tinkle won’t do that,” said Mr. Carter. “Tinkle is a gentle pony, which is more than I can say of some I have. A few of them are quite wild. But the only bad thing Tinkle ever did was, one day, to leave the meadow and get mired in a swamp. But I got him out.”

“He wasn’t really bad, was he?” asked George, who was standing near the pony, patting him.

“Well, no, I guess you wouldn’t call it exactly bad,” said the stockman with a smile. “Tinkle just didn’t know any better. He wanted to have some fun, perhaps; but I guess he won’t do that again.”

“I won’t let him run away when I have him,” said George.

“Oh, ho!” cried Mr. Farley with a laugh. “So you think you are going to have Tinkle for your own, do you?”

“Won’t you get him for me?” begged the little boy. “Mabel and I could have such fun riding and driving him.” Mabel was George’s sister. She was a year younger than he.

“Do you think it would be safe for a little boy like mine to have a pony?” asked Mr. Farley of the stockman.

“Why, yes, after Tinkle is trained a bit,” said Mr. Carter. “He has never been ridden or driven, but I could soon get him trained so he would be safe to use both ways. Do you think you want to buy him?”

“Well, I might,” said Mr. Farley slowly. He was thinking whether it would be best or not. He did not want either of his little children to be hurt by a pony that might run away.

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said the owner of the stock farm. “I’ll sell you a horse for yourself, and then I’ll start at once to teach Tinkle what it means to have some one on his back, and also how he must act when he is hitched to a pony cart. I am going to train some of the other ponies, and I’ll train him also. He is old enough now to be trained. Then you and your little boy come back in about two weeks and we’ll see how George likes Tinkle then,” finished Mr. Carter.

“Oh, I’ll love him all the more!” cried George. “I love him now, and I want him for my very own! He is a fine pony!” and once more George patted the little creature.

“You couldn’t do that to some of the ponies,” said Mr. Carter, as he and George’s father walked back toward the house. “They would be too wild, and would not stand still. But Tinkle is a smart little chap.”

“Good-by!” called George to Tinkle as the small boy walked away with his father. “I’ll come back to see you soon,” and he waved his hand at Tinkle and Tinkle waved his tail at George. At least George thought so, though I imagine that Tinkle was only brushing off a tickling fly.

But one thing I do know, and that was that Tinkle really liked the little boy who patted him so nicely.

“He has very nice, soft hands,” said Tinkle to Curley Mane, another pony, as they cropped the sweet grass together. “I’m sure he would be good to me.”

“Are you going to live with him?” asked Curley Mane.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Tinkle answered. “But I’ve always noticed that whenever any strange men or boys come to the farm here, in a few days afterward some of the horses or ponies go away, and I guess the men and boys take them.”

“Yes, that is right,” said old Dapple Gray walking up beside the two ponies. “You’ve guessed it, Tinkle. The Man, here, raises us horses to sell. I’ve been sold more than once.”

“Is it nice to be sold?” asked Tinkle.

“Well, it all depends,” was the answer. “The first place I was sold to was not nice. I had to draw a grocery wagon through the streets, and the boy who sat on the seat used to strike me with a whip.”

“What did you do?” asked Curley Mane.

“Well, I’m sorry to say I ran away. It wasn’t the right thing to do, only I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t stand being beaten. The boy fell off the seat of the wagon, I ran so fast, and he bumped his nose. Then the wagon was smashed and I was cut and bruised and I had a terrible time,” said Dapple Gray.

“Then the grocery man brought me back here, saying he didn’t want me, and after that I was sold to some men that made me draw the big shiny wagon that had a chimney spouting flames and smoke. I was treated well there. I had a nice stall with plenty of hay to eat and clean straw to sleep on. Sometimes I had oats, and I got so I could run very fast indeed.

“But it was hard work, and I soon grew tired. So they brought me back here again. That’s what being sold means. You never can tell where you’re going.”

“Do you think some of the horses here were sold to that man and little boy?” asked Tinkle.

“We can tell pretty soon,” answered Dapple Gray, “by watching to see if any horses or ponies are taken away.”

And, surely enough, the next day one of the men on the stock farm took away one of the horses. He was called Hobble by the other horses because, when he was a colt, he hurt his foot on a sharp stone and had to hobble for a week or two. But he soon got over that. And Hobble was the horse George’s father had bought for himself, though Mr. Carter named the horse Prince.

“Good-by!” called Hobble, or as we must call him, Prince, to his friends as he was led away from the stock farm. “Maybe I’ll see some of you again before long.”

“I don’t believe so,” called back Dapple Gray. But neither he nor any one else knew what was going to happen to Tinkle.

When Prince had been driven to a big city, a few miles away from the stock farm, he was taken into a nice clean stable where there were one or two other horses.

“Ah, so that’s the new horse I bought, is it?” asked a voice, and looking behind him, from where he was tied in his stall, Prince saw Mr. Farley. Of course Prince did not know the man’s name but he knew he was the same one who had been at the stock farm.

“I wonder,” thought Prince, “where the little boy is that was patting Tinkle.”

He did not have to wonder long for he soon heard another voice calling:

“Oh, Daddy! Did the new horse come?”

“Yes, he’s in his stall,” said Mr. Farley.

“And did he bring Tinkle?” asked George.

“No, not yet. Tinkle won’t be ready for a week or so. And I am not sure I am going to get him for you.”