26/ DECEMBER 2020 THE RIDER A Horse Called Christmas


This story was originally printed in The Rider in December 1986. With the Coronavirus in-


festing the world and most horse things stopped, we thought we could give you a little bit of a lift at this time of the year!


By Jack Carpenter Like the first Christmas


that started in a stable this story is centred around a simple abode, a barn on a country farm in On- tario and the influence a horse has on the life of it’s residents. The horse called Christ-


mas. No one knows for sure why, but it gave the story poignant and memorable as it’s namesake. Robert H. Biddle is a retired school principal, (those miserable kids forced me into early retire- ment), a character full of yarns and stories of his country life. Time is taking it’s toll on old man Biddle and the family farm, but not before he related this. A Christmas story. Well it all started on the old


family farm. The place was in good enough shape, heaven knows we put in enough hours, but it did not pay well and both my father, my brother and me had other jobs. So we survived and lived on a farm. I had my first teaching job


at a rural school. Mentally if not financially fulfilling. Having to do a share of daily and weekend chores made me acceptable to students, principal and school board. Industry was recognized in those days. Personally I don’t think we knew any better, every- one accepted you had to work hard to get anywhere, although in


the 1930’s I was not too sure of which direction we were working towards. It was in the late summer of


1938. On a Saturday evening, the air was hot and still. I was living at the farm with my folks. They had got a lift into town with a regular neighbour and I was just finishing cleaning up around the barn.


We had got rid of the cattle


we had and the only livestock around at the time was a couple of pigs, some geese and chickens and we were doing some haying and rented out 20 acres. I heard some horses hooves, looked up and out of the dust of the side road comes a man leading a horse.


“Can I help you?” I says. “No you can help me a lot”,


he says, “But you can have the horse and I’d thank you kindly if’n you would”. “Is something wrong with


it?” “No, he’s sound and well


natured.” “So, how am I supposed to


be able to help.” I asked. “I’d like you to take him


and keep him for me. All he’s got is this bridle and halter, I had to sell the harness and the saddle. “He needs feed and we’ve


walked far as we can together. I have to go on and your the only living person I’ve seen for a while. I am joining the army, so it’s a long walk yet to the Ar- mouries in Toronto and Christ- mas here won’t make it”. “But I can’t afford to buy a


horse.” “Take him. If you can look


after him for a while I know I’ll be back for him. I’ll repay you. Your our only hope. He’s all I got. Look after him.” “Well, um, anyway, theres


oats and water here, no animal need go hungry, bring him around the barn. He handed me the halter. “Then come over to the


house and I will make some tea.” I led the horse to where I


feed the pigs. There was a pail of fresh water and he started to


drink. I scooped out oats and put ‘em in the trough. Walked out front and the man was gone. I walked part way down the drive where I could see the side road. He was no where to be seen. I thought I saw a silhouette at the end of the concession, it was saluting, and then it was gone. The horse was with us all


year. How it’s name got to be Christmas I don’t know. But it answered to it every time I called. It stayed healthy, and I got at- tached to it in a way, not having had a horse before. That September war broke


out. I had been doing some in- structing with the Militia. Com- munications they call it, me a teacher and all. Well, I signed up and a month later I was on my way to Europe, assigned to the British Signals unit to train for in- telligence. My folks took on the farm and it was me who had to say goodbye to Christmas, I re- member saying, I know “I will be back, look after him.” And I can still feel his


warm muzzle when I bedded him down for the last time. Roughly one year to the day of the strange circumstances that brought him to the farm. I got sent to France with


the British Expeditionary Force. We had a signal group close to the front, in some farm buildings on the edge of a village. It was Christmas Eve, 1939. There was shelling and an air raid. If a Ger- man plane flying over and drops some bombs constitutes an air raid. It was our misfortune that the bombs hit the building we were in. I ran outside as it was collapsing around my ears. I could feel the pain in my shoul- der, as I grabbed it I fell and some timber and stuff landed on top of me. I was pinned to the ground. I couldn’t move. There was mud under me


and the dust rubble over me. I cried out but no one heard me. For all I knew I was alone and I figured it was the end and I was cursing my luck. What a damnable way to


go. I have no idea how long I


was lying there. Someone shook my shoul-


figure stood over me. “Hold on and I’ll get you


out,” he said. He started to move chunks


of rubble, then put his arms under mine and pulled me free. I tried, but I couldn’t stand. “Don’t worry,” he said “I’ll


get you out. “Here, put your arm around my shoulder.” He paused, looked at the flashes on my bat- tledress and say’s “You’re from Canada?” “Yes,” I said. “Me too.” he replies. He had me on my feet but I


couldn’t move. “ I think my leg is broken,” He looked at me. “ We’ll


manage.” I’d seen that face some-


where before. “Do I know you?” I asked. “Did you befriend a horse


called Christmas?” he said. “Yes… By God, it’s you.


Never thought I’d see you again, least not here.” “You did us more than a


favour my friend now it’s my turn. I can help you.” With that he lifted me onto


his shoulder and started walking. “What’s your name?” was


all I could breathe. “Duncan Portage.” he said


I joined with the English First Battalion Warwickshire Regi- ment.” I passed out. Later I learned


he carried me two miles to a clearing station and the transport that took me to a field hospital. I had a fractured leg and a gash in my head and shoulder. Although I asked around, no one knew what happened to the man who saved my life. I was sent back to England


and was still there after Dunkirk. My enquiries to H.Q. eventually traced Duncan Portage. He had been killed in action, in France, November 1939. Two years later, suffering


the air raids on the south coast with a radar unit, some command barges had broken loose in a storm. It was Christmas Eve. I was going on a three day pass that evening and we all got called to help sand bag the broken pier the barges had hit. It was wet and cold, with


der. I looked up. A tall gangling sea and rain lashing us and the


coast. We were manhandling these sandbags to shore up around our installations. The local people helped with some hot tea and sandwiches. Then part of the pier collapsed. I got knocked into the water and was having a hard time keeping my head above water while I tried to wade out of the slush and rough sea.


I was beginning to panic,


my uniform and boots heavy with water, when a horse walked into the water. I grabbed for it’s mane, Put


my arms around it’s neck and it just walked me to dry land. I let go, patted the broad neck, and it nuzzled my hand. I knew that feel, It was


Christmas. “How on earth did you get here?… Come on lets get dry.”


I turned towards the vil-


lage, but the horse walked toward the open field and was swallowed up in the mist and darkness. I searched but never saw him again.


I was demobbed in ‘46,


came home to the farm and teaching. The family told me that Christmas died on Christmas Eve 1942. The following Christmas Eve I had parked the car in the barn and was walking towards the house when I thought I heard a clip-clop of a horse coming up the drive. It was the same sound I had


heard when Christmas first walked into my life. I waited. There was nothing there. I could- n’t get the sound out of my mind. So late that evening I went out and put out some oats and fresh water.


They were gone on Christ-


mas Day. So every year since I made


sure I’m here on Christmas Eve to put out food and water. It’s al- ways gone the next day. I haven’t seen a horse or anything for that matter, but many times I hear horse’s hooves around the barn. I know it’s Christmas though. I just know. Why am I telling you? Well


as you can see the barn is getting beyond repair and it’s most likely to be coming down…. And I’m getting old. I won’t be around much longer. I don’t so much worry


about me. I wonder what will happen to Christmas. You see, years ago when I was younger I saw and knew Christmas. Now what I have is just the spirit of Christmas to live with. It doesn’t dim with age, be-


cause I think the spirit of Christ- mas will go on forever. But you have to tell others. I have good reason to be around here, and I have memories that are filled with wonder. I just hope some- one, somewhere, will give time and share the spirit of Christmas. Now excuse me, I have


some chores to do. Getting close to Christmas Eve and I need to get some oats and fresh water.


Post Script: In the remains of the old barn we placed a cardboard box of oats and a pail of water. The next morning the oats were disturbed. It could have been the wind or mice. Who Knows? It was the pail of water that


riveted out attention… it wasn’t frozen.


Merry Christmas and long may the spirit of Christmas live.


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