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The Little Colt That Couldn't p. 342/

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I handed the telephone receiver to my husband, Maurice, ashe came into the room.

"It's the manager of Parklands Farm, " I said. "One oftheir most valuable mares has just foaled but there's somethingwrong with the colt."

Maurice nodded, took over the phone and I picked up theextension to listen.

"You say the foal can't stand up? Same trouble as lasttime? Well, then, I'll be right over."

Maurice hung up the phone and turned to me. "Coming?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," I said, and hurried awayto get ready.

I had often accompanied my veterinarian©husband on calls andit was always interesting to go to Parklands. Owned by Sir MilesStanton, it was located a short distance from our home in Surrey,in southern England. As soon as we went through the big gates ofthe Farm it was as if we had entered another world. Theimmaculate gravel driveway, flanked by tall trees, led up to thewell©kept stables. Here, horses reigned supreme and where thesole topic of conversation.

At Parklands, the foalings usually took place early in theyear and visiting the new arrivals was always one of our favoritefamily outings.

But this was a late foaling and Mr. Maitland, the manager,looked mournful as he led us toward the stable.

"We saw as soon as he was born," Maitland said, "thathe'll never be any good. He'll have to be shot."

Maurice said nothing but stood looking down at the littlecolt.