Читать книгу Heathcliff Redux - Lily Tuck - Страница 42

One sock—buy him.

Two socks—try him.

Three socks—doubt him.

Four socks—do without him.

Four white feet and a white nose—knock him in the head and feed him to the crows.

The old adage horsemen like to spout about horses’ markings is dead wrong.

My nine-year-old chestnut mare, Esmeralda, Esmé for short, had four white stockings and a star on her forehead and was a sweetheart. I had had her for four years and she had calmed down a lot since we bought her. She had comfortable gaits and she could jump like “a toad in a thunderstorm”—who said that? Mark Twain? She was usually pretty calm and the only thing that really bothered her was a loud noise—a car door slamming or a gunshot. We were riding along the road one day when a truck went by and the driver blew his air horn at us, and, bucking, Esmé bolted and I nearly got thrown.