Prince

My thumb is still healing and I am not using the computer much. Today I am publishing excerpts from my book, Tales Of Whitethorn.

Prince 1948

On a beautiful dreamlike morning in May, a big grey horse appears in Whitethorn. Nobody seems to own him He may have drifted up the Whitethorn Road from somewhere near Briceland, a small town about 10 miles away, or he may have simply stepped out of the mist of a fairy tale. We found him wandering in a nearby field and put him in a makeshift corral at her house.

Today, I run down the Whitethorn Road to Shirley’s house, where I’m stopped dead by the sight of the towering beauty in her corral. I rush closer and take in his huge body and lofty grey head. He is taller than any horse I’ve ever seen. I inch my way into his corral and put my hand on his velvet nose. He welcomes me with a nudge, as if asking, “Where’s the grain?”

“We don’t have grain here in Whitethorn, but I can pick you some grass,” I tell him, happy he’s friendly and gentle....


“I’m going to get on him,” I announce, “but we need to make a bridle first.”

We search the barnyard and find an old rope covered in dried mud. Its frayed ends go deep into the earth like twisted roots and it takes both of us to pull it up. We clean it and make it into a large bridle complete with long reins. I fit the bridle around his head .....putting the rope behind his ears and attaching it to the part of the rope around his nose.


I grab his mane with my left hand and try to swing my legs over his back. He’s almost twice as tall as I am. On the first try my feet make it only half way to the top. He is not skinny like Brownie so his big belly gets in the way.....

Time after time I swing on his mane and try to reach what I’m sure is heaven. Each time I give a great big swing, I get my feet a couple of inches higher. Finally I make it up to his back, covered with sweat and gasping for breath.

Perched high on the big gray’s fat back, my legs are spread wide instead of down. I love the feel of his big hairy back against my legs. I feel like a king looking over my Whitethorn kingdom. I sit there, knowing my life is changed forever. The back of a horse is where I belong. But he is not just a “horse”, he must have a name.

I think on it real deep. I got it! ” From this moment forward I pronounce you ‘Prince’.”

I pull one of the reins to the right and Prince turns around. I give him a little kick and we are on our way. I think I may be a natural-born rider. Everything goes great until Prince starts to trot and I begin to bounce up and down. But I’m not discouraged because I know I will soon be riding like I’m part of him.
A couple of weeks later, I’m riding like a cowboy. I can float along on Prince’s back when he walks, trots, or gallops and I can swing up on his bare back like an acrobat.

One hazy June day, I go out to catch Prince and he is nowhere to be found. He has vanished! Did he return to the town of Briceland, or did he travel back to the enchanted land where he came from? It’s hard to be without him. I no longer sit high upon his back, galloping through the woods and fields of Whitethorn. No one has heard any news of him since he disappeared. Wherever he is, I hope he’s happy and fat and remembers our time together. He taught me how to ride and foretold of my life with horses. I will miss him forever.

Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley