The first place I can remember well was a pleasant field with a pond of clear water in it. Trees made shadows over the pond, and water plants grew at the deep end. On one side was another field, and on the other side we looked over a gate at our master’s house, which stood by the roadside. At the top of our field were more tall trees, and at the bottom was a fast-running stream.
While I was young, I lived on my mother’s milk, but as soon as I was old enough to eat grass, my mother went out to work during the day and came back in the evening.
There were six other young horses in the field, although they were older than I was. We all galloped2 together round the field, and had great fun. But sometimes the others would kick and bite.
“They are young farm horses and haven’t learned how to behave,” my mother told me.“You are different. Your father is well known, and your grandfather twice won the most important race at Newmarket3. Your grandmother was quiet and gentle, and you have never seen me kick or bite, have you? I hope you will grow up to be gentle and a willing worker, and never bite or kick.”
I have never forgotten my mother’s advice. She was a clever and sensible old horse. Her name was Duchess, but our master often called her Pet. He was a good, kind man, and my mother loved him very much. Whenever she saw him at the gate, she trotted4 across. He used to pat her and say, “Well, old Pet, and how is your little Darkie?” I was a dull black color, so he called me Darkie. He sometimes brought a piece of bread for me, or a carrot for my mother, and I think we were his favorites.
When I was two years old, something happened which I have never forgotten. It was early spring, and there was a light mist over the trees and fields. I and the other young horses were feeding at the lower end of the field when we heard the distant cry of dogs.
The oldest among us lifted his head to listen. “There are the hounds5!” he said, and immediately raced off. The rest of us followed him to the top of the field, where we could see several fields beyond.
My mother and another old horse were standing near. “They’ve found a hare,” said my mother, “and if they come this way, we shall see the hunt.”
Soon the dogs were all racing down the field next to ours, making a loud “yo-yo-yo-yo!” sound at the top of their voices. After them came men on horses, some in green coats, and all galloping as fast as they could. Suddenly, the dogs became silent and ran around with their noses to the ground.
“They’ve lost the smell of the hare,” said the old horse. “Perhaps it will escape.”
But the dogs began their “yo-yo-yo-yo!” again and came at full speed towards our field. Just then a hare, with fear, ran towards the trees. The dogs jumped over the stream and ran across the field, followed by the huntsmen. Six or eight jumped their horses over the stream, close behind the dogs. Before the hare could get away, the dogs were upon her with wild cries.
We heard a terrible scream, and that was the end of the hare. One of the men picked her up and held her by the leg. She was covered in blood, but all the huntsmen seemed pleased.
I was so greatly surprised that at first I did not see what was happening by the stream, but when I did look, I saw a sad sight. Two fine horses were down, one in the stream and the other on the grass. One rider, who seemed unhurt, was climbing out of the water, but the other lay quite still.
“His neck is broken,” said my mother. “I can’t understand why men are so fond of this sport. They quite often hurt themselves and ruin good horses, all for one hare that they could get more easily some other way. But we are only horses, and don’t know why men do these things.”
They carried the dead rider to our master’s house, and I heard afterwards that it was George Gordon, the only son of a local landowner, and a fine young man.
A man from the village came to look at the black horse on the grass. The animal was in a great pain and one of his legs was broken. The man began to feel the horse all over, then he shook his head. Someone ran to our master’s house and came back with a gun. Soon after, there was a loud bang and a terrible cry, then all was still. The black horse did not move again.
My mother was very unhappy. “I’ve known that horse for years,” she said. “His name was Rob Roy. He was a good brave horse.” She never went near that end of the field again.
Not many days after, we heard the church bell and saw a long, strange black carriage, pulled by black horses. They were taking the body of young George Gordon to the churchyard to bury him. He would never ride again. I never knew what they did with Rob Roy, but it was all for one little hare.
I was beginning to grow handsome. My coat was fine and soft, and was a shiny black. I had one white foot, and a pretty white star on my forehead. When I was four years old, Mr. Gordon came to look at me. He looked closely at my eyes, my mouth, and my legs, and then I had to walk and trot and gallop for him.
“When he has been trained,” Mr. Gordon said to my master, “he will do very well.”
My master liked to train his horses himself before selling them, and the next day my training began.
To train a horse is to teach him to wear a saddle, and to carry a man, woman or child on his back. The horse must also learn to wear a collar6, and to stand still when it is put on; then to have a carriage fixed behind him, and to go fast or slow, whichever his driver wishes. He must never bite or kick or talk to other horses, and must always do what his master tells him, however tired or hungry he feels.
Like all horses that have grown up, I had to wear a bit7 and bridle8. A bit is a great piece of cold hard metal, as thick as a man’s finger, which is pushed into a horse’s mouth between his teeth and over his tongue, with the ends coming out at the corners. It is held there by straps which go over the horse’s head, under his neck, round his nose and under his chin. Reins9, which the rider holds, are fastened to each end of the bit. Slowly, with my master’s kind words and gentle ways, I learned to wear my bit and bridle.
Next there was the saddle. My master put it on my back very gently, then fixed the straps under my body, speaking quietly to me all the time. Then one morning, he got on my back and rode me round the field on the soft grass. He did this every day until I was used to it. Then he took me to the village where a man fixed metal shoes on to each hoof. My feet felt heavy and strange, but I got used to this, too.
There were more new things to wear. First, a heavy collar on my neck, and a bridle with great side pieces against my eyes, called blinkers. With these on, I could only see in front of me. But in time I got used to everything, and could do my work as well as my mother.
我记忆中的第一个地方是一大片美丽的田野和一个清澈的池塘。树影倒映在塘中，深水中长着水草。田野的一边连着另一片田野，从另一边越过一道门能看见主人的房子，立在路边。田野高处是片高高的树林，低处是条湍急的小河。
我小时候吃妈妈的奶，等我长到能吃草了，妈妈就白天出去干活，晚上回来。
这片田野上还有另外6匹年轻的马，他们都比我大。我们一起奔跑着穿过田野，非常好玩。不过有时他们会踢打撕咬。
“他们是年轻的农场马，没学过如何遵守规矩。”妈妈对我说，“你跟他们不同。你爸爸很有名，你的祖父曾两次在纽马克特得过最重要的赛马比赛冠军。你的祖母安静又温和，你也从没看见过我踢人或咬人，是吧？我希望你长大后能性情温和、工作勤恳，永远不要踢、咬。”
我从没忘记妈妈的忠告。她是一匹聪明明理的老马，叫杜琪丝，不过我们主人常叫她宝贝。他是一个善良的好人，妈妈非常爱他。每当看到他出现在门口，妈妈就快步跑过去。他常拍拍她说：“喂，老宝贝，你的小黑好吗？”我全身都是深黑色，所以他叫我小黑。有时他带给我一片面包，或是给妈妈一根胡萝卜，我觉得我们是他的心头肉。
两岁的时候，发生了一件令我永远无法忘掉的事。那是早春，树林和田野都笼罩着一层薄雾。我和其他年轻的马儿在低洼处吃草，这时我们听到远处传来狗的叫声。
我们中年纪最大的一匹马抬头听了听，说：“是猎犬！”然后他立刻跑开了。我们也跟着他往高处跑，在那儿我们能看见远处的田野。
我妈妈和另一匹老马就站在附近。妈妈说：“他们发现了一只兔子。如果他们往这边来，我们就可以看到这场狩猎了。”
很快猎犬向我们旁边的田野冲了下来，高声狂吠着。随后人们骑着马跑了过来，有的穿着绿色外套，全都在策马飞奔。突然，猎犬静了下来，边跑边用鼻子在周围的地面上嗅。
“他们闻不到兔子的气味了，”那匹老马说，“也许兔子能逃掉。”
但是猎犬又叫开了，并全速向我们的田野冲过来。这时一只野兔向树林跑去，简直吓疯了。猎犬跳过小河穿过田野，猎人紧随其后。有六到八个人策马越过小河，紧跟在狗后面。野兔还没来及逃走，猎犬已经狂吠着扑到了她身上。
我们听到一声惨叫，那只野兔就这么完了。一个人抓住她的腿把她拎了起来。兔子全身血淋淋的，但所有的猎人看上去都很高兴。
我吃惊地看着这一幕，没顾得上看河边的情形。可是当我望过去的时候，看到的则是一副悲惨景象。两匹好马倒在那里，一匹倒在河里，另一匹卧在草地上。一个骑手正从水里往外爬，看上去没受伤，但另一个却静静地躺在地上。
“他的脖子折断了，”妈妈说，“我真不明白为什么人类如此喜爱这种游戏。他们经常伤了自己，也毁了好马，这一切就是为了一只野兔，而他们本可以很容易地以其它方式捕获的。不过我们只是马，搞不懂人们怎么想的。”
他们把摔死的骑手抬到我们主人房里，后来我听说那是乔治·高顿，本地一个农场主的独生子，一个挺不错的小伙子。
有个人从村里出来看草地上的那匹黑马。那马痛得要命，一条腿断了。那人把马的全身上下摸了一遍，摇了摇头。有人跑回我们主人的房子，拿来一支枪。随后是一声巨响和一声可怕的嘶喊，一切便安静了下来。那匹黑马一动不动了。
妈妈非常伤心。“我认识那匹马好多年了，”她说，“他叫罗伯·罗伊，是匹勇敢的好马。”她从此再没靠近过那片田野。
没过几天，我们听到了教堂的钟声，还看见一辆长长的、奇怪的黑色马车，由几匹黑马拉着。他们是在把年轻的乔治·高顿的遗体运到墓地埋掉。他永远不能再骑马了。我不知他们怎么处置罗伯·罗伊的，但这一切都不过是为了一只小野兔。
我开始变得英俊了。我的毛皮柔软细腻，油黑油黑的。我的一只脚是白色的，前额还有一颗漂亮的白星。我4岁时，高顿先生来看我。他仔细地看了看我的眼睛、嘴巴和腿，然后我为他表演了走步、小跑和奔驰。
“把他训练一下，”高顿先生对我的主人说，“他会成为一匹好马。”
我的主人喜欢在卖马前亲自驯马，于是第二天我的训练开始了。
训练一匹马，要教他学会配戴马鞍，驮男人、女人和小孩。这匹马还得学会戴轭具，在套轭具时，得站稳不动；然后还得学会习惯在身后套上一辆马车，按赶车人的意思快行或慢走。他永远不能踢人、嘶咬或和其他马闲聊，而且不管多累多饿，都必须永远服从主人。
和所有成年马一样，我得戴上嚼口和笼头。马嚼口是一大块又冷又硬的金属，像人的手指那么厚，塞进马嘴，卡在上下两排牙齿之间、舌头之上，末端从嘴角伸出来。勒住嚼口的绳子绕着马头，经过脖子下面，围着鼻子和下巴。马夫手里的缰绳紧紧系住嚼口的两端。慢慢地，在主人好言好语和温柔的动作指引下，我学会了戴嚼口和笼头。
下一步是配马鞍。主人非常轻柔地把它放到我背上，把绳子系在我肚皮底下，一直轻声跟我说话。然后某天早上，他骑到我背上在软软的草地上绕着田野走了走。他每天都这样，直到我习惯了为止。然后他带我到村里，有人给我的每只脚都钉了掌。我的脚觉得又沉又怪，不过后来我连这个也习惯了。
还有好多新东西要戴。首先，是脖子上重重的轭具，还有笼头，旁边是一大块挡住眼睛的叫马眼罩的东西。戴上它们，我只能看见我前方的东西。但渐渐地我适应了这一切，而且能把活儿干得和妈妈一样好了。
1. 安娜·司威尔（Anna Sewell 1820—1878），英国作家。她身染重病时花了6年时间，完成了第一部也是惟一一部小说《黑骏马》。安娜14岁时落下残疾，靠拐杖行走，但她仍坚持自己驾驭马车到处活动。书中涉及的大量马术知识，皆作者经验之谈。
2. gallop v. 疾驰；飞奔
3. Newmarket n. 纽马克特，英格兰东南部城镇，著名赛马中心。
4. trot v. 小跑
5. hound n. 猎犬
6. collar n. 轭具；项圈
7. bit [bit] n. 马嚼
8. bridle n. 马笼头
9. rein n. 缰绳