by Everett Reid
It was 5 a.m. on a day in mid-June when I sat on a street car waiting bench and watched the sun rise. The heavenly powder duster had laid a faint blush over the eastern sky.
The first little bird to be heard from let out a squak and was joined in chorus from all sides. Then a fat little robin flew down from its perch, listened with one ear cocked and pulled up a big worm, thereby fulfilling the story about the early bird. Several dogs were running about doing what dogs do at day break.
So what was I, a 12-year-old-boy, doing sitting on a bench watching the sun rise at an hour so early that other boys had two hours yet until they protested, "Aw Ma, lemme sleep."
Well, the truth was that I was in love and every morning at first break of dawn there I'd be sitting on my bench waiting for her. As she came down the street I'd advance to meet her, kiss her on the nose and lovingly pat her rump. Mr Jarman would always be at the door of the wagon ready to hand me the bottle basket that held two quart bottles and he'd say, "You sure do love that little pony."
"Yes sir," I'd grin. "She's prettier than any girl I ever saw."
"How old are you, boy? Twelve? Won't be long and you'll change your tune and forget all about old Maggy."
The reason I was getting up at such an unearthly hour was that Mr. Jarman had told Papa that his rheumatism was getting so bad that it was almost too painful for him to get off the milk wagon to make his deliveries. Did Papa know a bright boy he could get to carry the bottles for him?
That's how it was that the next morning I was dragged from my bed before daylight. I had always hated early mornings, no matter how pretty the sunrise was and even those days when I had to get up early to go fishing with Papa.
Even the smell of Mama's frying side pork and freshly baked biscuits couldn't wake me up and I just sat there staring at my plate.
"Look here," said Mama, "You'd better eat for it will be a long time till your noon meal, so I soaked up some meat fat with a biscuit."
Papa stood up and took his dinner pail and said, "Come on, we'll walk together" and I dragged along behind him down the street. Presently we came to a big barn. On the side was painted, "Jarman and Son Dairy."
Then I saw her standing in front of the barn and all my lack-a-daisy attitude vanished. Oh my, wasn't she a beauty. I gasp at the sight of her.
In anticipation of a hot day ahead she wore a pink straw hat. There were two holes in it through which her ears stuck out. Her big brown eyes looked at me with such gentleness that they caused my heart to flip flop. I approached her with a feeling of deep reverence and patted her nose. She licked my hand.
"You really like that pony, don't you," said Mr. Jarman as he came out of the barn.
"Oh, yes, she's a real beauty."
"Well, I don't know if I'd say she's beautiful but she'll do," laughed Mr. Jarman. "She and me have been buddies for years and she knows the customers better than I do. Now, help me load the wagon."
When the wagon was finally loaded, I got on and Mr. Jarman hollered, "Let's go."
The milk wagon was like a little house on wheels with a door on each side to make it easier for the milk man to accommodate both sides of the street. I looked out the front window and watched Maggy twitch her ears as I started to pick up the lines that attached me to her. "Better leave those alone. You'll only confuse her. She's smarter than you are," cautioned Mr. Jarman.
In the middle of the next block she stopped and I carried the basket of bottles to the door thereby saving Mr. Jarman from having to move his painful legs enflamed with rheumatism.
And so the day wore on, with the pony stopping at all the proper houses on the route and I carrying the bottles and collecting the yellow tickets. Our last stop was a restaurant, where we deposited all the milk left on the wagon. Then Maggy, who had gone at a sedate pace from stop to stop all day, suddenly set off at a trot that made the bottles jingle in their baskets.
"That old girl really is smart," said my boss. "She knows as well as I do that it's time to go home and rest and get a good meal. It wouldn't surprise me to know she read the paper, but I guess she's too smart for that."
Back at the dairy, Mrs. Jarman was anxious to know how our day went.
"Fine," laughed Mr. Jarman. "That boy has taken a real affection for Maggy and if they run off together, I'm going to have to hitch you to the wagon to make deliveries," he teased as he slipped his arm around her shoulders and they walked inside.
As summer passed and the days got hotter and hotter, there came a day when Maggy no longer trotted home from the last delivery. Mr. Jarman treated her kindly. "Poor old Maggy," he said one hot day when the sun was out doing itself to put out heat. "Pretty soon I'll be able to buy that truck and can put you out to pasture."
"A truck," I exclaimed in alarm. "Are you going to get a truck to replace Maggy? Why, a truck wouldn't know the customers."
"Boy," Mr. Jarman faced me solemnly and I saw a tear in his eye. "Maggy is an old lady. In horse ages she's older than I and she's got rheumatism too. She needs to be put to rest in a green shady pasture."
One day the heat broke all records for the hottest day ever and poor old Maggy walked very slow on her way home, stopping to rest now and then. Finally, on Pine Street she stopped, staggered and fell.
"Maggy," I cried, jumping out of the wagon and running to where she lay. I sat down in the dirt road and cuddled her head in my arms but she didn't respond.
"It's no use, boy," said Mr. Jarman "she's gone."
As I sat there sobbing with Maggy's head in my lap, a woman passing by stopped and said, "Good Heavens, boy, quit that silly fuss. It's only a horse."
I wanted to kick her.
We hauled Maggy home on the stone boat and Mrs. Jarman cried as much as I did. Mr. Jarman asked me where I thought we should bury her and I selected a spot under an old apple tree in the south pasture. After a while, Papa came along to see what was keeping me and he helped with the digging.
It was just twilight when we finished and I threw some pine needles in to line the grave and we lowered Maggy in. Mr. Jarman stood hatless by the grave and said "Ashes to ashes," and we covered her up.
That grave became my mecca. I planted a framework of hen and chickens around it and daily took fresh flowers.
It was while I was crawling under the pasture fence one evening that a farefoot girl came along. She stopped and asked, "Whatcha doing?"
"I'm putting flowers on the grave of my best friend."
"There ain't no grave yard over there," she said.
"Come and see," I invited. She looked at the grave, "Aw, it's just an old horse." Then she saw the marker I had carved. "Maggy – why that's my name."
"She was so beautiful," I replied, "with pretty brown eyes just like yours."
"Gee, thanks. I'm glad to know I'm as pretty as a horse."
Years later, Maggy and I and a couple of young 'uns were traveling along a country road in our Model T when she had me stop at a place where an old gnarled apple tree grew just over the fence.
"Now, kids," said my wife. "Here is where your Papa told me that I was as pretty as a horse."
And my thoughts went back to my original love with the pink had with her cute ears sticking out, but I kept still.
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