I had often wondered how it was that Sir Oliver had such a very short
tail; it really was only six or seven inches long, with a tassel of hair
hanging from it; and on one of our holidays in the orchard I ventured to
ask him by what accident it was that he had lost his tail. "Accident!"
he snorted with a fierce look, "it was no accident! it was a cruel,
shameful, cold-blooded act! When I was young I was taken to a place
where these cruel things were done; I was tied up, and made fast so that
I could not stir, and then they came and cut off my long and beautiful
tail, through the flesh and through the bone, and took it away.

"How dreadful!" I exclaimed.

"Dreadful, ah! it was dreadful; but it was not only the pain, though
that was terrible and lasted a long time; it was not only the indignity
of having my best ornament taken from me, though that was bad; but it
was this, how could I ever brush the flies off my sides and my hind legs
any more? You who have tails just whisk the flies off without thinking
about it, and you can't tell what a torment it is to have them settle
upon you and sting and sting, and have nothing in the world to lash them
off with. I tell you it is a lifelong wrong, and a lifelong loss; but
thank heaven, they don't do it now."

"What did they do it for then?" said Ginger.

"For fashion!" said the old horse with a stamp of his foot; "for
fashion! if you know what that means; there was not a well-bred young
horse in my time that had not his tail docked in that shameful way, just
as if the good God that made us did not know what we wanted and what
looked best."