Peachtree Street, Rhett reining in his big black horse to keep pace with the fat pony's gait.
Sometimes they went tearing down the quiet roads about the town, scattering chickens and dogs and children, Bonnie beating Mr. Butler with her crop, her tangled curls flying, Rhett holding in his horse with a firm hand that she might think Mr. Butler was winning the race.
When he had assured himself of her seat, her hands, her utter fearlessness, Rhett decided that the time had come for her to learn to make the low jumps that were within the reach of Mr.
Butler's short legs. To this end, he built a hurdle in the back yard and paid Wash, one of Uncle Peter's small nephews, twenty-five cents a day to teach Mr. Butler to jump. He began with a bar two inches from the ground and gradually worked up the height to a foot.
This arrangement met with the disapproval of the three parties concerned, Wash, Mr.
Butler and Bonnie. Wash was afraid of horses and only the princely sum offered induced him to take the stubborn pony over the bar dozens of times a day; Mr. Butler, who bore with equanimity having his tail pulled by his small mistress and his hooves examined constantly, felt that the Creator of ponies had not intended him to put his fat body over the bar; Bonnie, who could not bear to see anyone else upon her pony, danced with impatience while Mr. Butler was learning his lessons.
When Rhett finally decided that the pony knew his business well enough to trust Bonnie
upon him, the child's excitement was boundless. She made her first jump with flying colors and, thereafter, riding abroad with her father held no charms for her. Scarlett could not help laughing at the pride and enthusiasm of father and daughter. She thought, however, that once the novelty had passed, Bonnie would turn to other things and the neighborhood would have some peace. But this sport did not pall. There was a bare track worn from the arbor at the far end of the yard to the hurdle, and all morning long the yard resounded with excited yells. Grandpa Merriwether, who had made the overland trip in 1849, said that the yells sounded just like an Apache after a successful scalping.
After the first week, Bonnie begged for a higher bar, a bar that was a foot and a half from the ground.
"When you are six years old," said Rhett. "Then you'll be big enough for a higher jump and I'll buy you a bigger horse. Mr. Butler's legs aren't long enough."
"They are, too, I jumped Aunt Melly's rose bushes and they are 'normously high!"
"No, you must wait," said Rhett, firm for once. But the firmness gradually faded away before her incessant importunings and tantrums.
"Oh, all right," he said with a laugh one morning and moved the narrow white cross bar higher. "If you fall off, don't cry and blame me!"
"Mother!" screamed Bonnie, turning her head up toward Scarlett's bedroom. "Mother!
Watch me! Daddy says I can!"
Scarlett, who was combing her hair, came to the window and smiled down at the tiny
excited figure, so absurd in the soiled blue habit.
"I really must get her another habit," she thought. "Though Heaven only knows how I'll make her give up that dirty one."
"Mother, watch!"
"I'm watching dear," said Scarlett smiling.
As Rhett lifted the child and set her on the pony, Scarlett called with a swift rush of pride at the straight back and the proud set of the head,
"You're mighty pretty, precious!"
"So are you," said Bonnie generously and, hammering a heel into Mr. Butler's ribs, she galloped down the yard toward the arbor.
"Mother, watch me take this one!" she cried, laying on the crop.
Watch me take this one!
Memory rang a bell far back in Scarlett's mind. There was something ominous about
those words. What was it? Why couldn't she remember? She looked down at her small daughter, so lightly poised on the galloping pony and her brow wrinkled as a chill swept swiftly through her breast. Bonnie came on with a rush, her crisp black curls jerking, her blue eyes blazing.
"They are like Pa's eyes," thought Scarlett, "Irish blue eyes and she's just like him in every way."
And, as she thought of Gerald, the memory for which she had been rumbling came to her
swiftly, came with the heart stopping clarity of summer lightning, throwing, for an instant, a whole countryside into unnatural brightness. She could hear an Irish voice singing, hear the hard rapid pounding of hooves coming up the pasture hill at Tara, hear a reckless voice, so like the voice of her child: "Ellen! Watch me take this one!"
"No!" she cried. "No! Oh, Bonnie, stop!"