A few miles south of Trottingham, the Equestria river drops in close to the hillside bank and runs deep and green. The water is warm too, for it has slipped twinkling over the yellow sands in the sunlight before reaching the narrow pool. On the sandy bank under the trees the leaves lie deep and so crisp that a cockatrice makes a great skittering if he moves among them.
There is a path through the willows and among the sycamores, a path beaten hard by colts coming down from the ranches to swim in the deep pool, and beaten hard by mares who come wearily down from the highway in the evening to jungle-up near water.
They had trotted in single file down the path, and even in the open one stayed behind the other. Both wore no clothes, because they were horses, and that would be silly, unless they were at some special event. The first mare had an orange mane and a bright yellow coat, with restless eyes and was an Earth-Pony. Behind her was her opposite. She was a Pegasus with a grey coat, yel