I was walking through the city of Canterlot on a Friday morning, just before dawn, when I heard a voice. It came from the slums, a dark part of town that few dared to pass through. Intrigued, I followed it. It was getting louder with each step, though it was still far away enough that I could not quite make out what was being said. Eventually, I came to the source of the voice. A young, strong-looking stallion was pulling a cart of colorful handkerchiefs, blankets, and cloaks. He was calling in a strong, clear voice, "Rags! Rags! New rags for old!", as he made his way through the streets.
He came upon an old mare, sitting on the curb. She was sobbing endlessly, and from he look of her face, she had been for some time. She s drying her bloodshot eyes with an old, dirty handkerchief, though it did little to help. The stallion stopped, unhitched himself from the wagon, and got a new, brilliant white handkerchief, and went to the mare. He knelt before her, and said in a voice so soft I could barely hear him, "New rags for old. Please, give me your old rag, and take this one".
The mare looked up at him, saw the genuine care in his eyes, and took the new cloth, trading her old one for it. She suddenly stopped crying, a look of joy on her face, the light back in her eyes. She hugged the stallion tightly, and skipped along the worn sidewalk, now with a reason to be happy. Then, the stallion took the old handkerchief, and touched it to his face, weeping as the old mare had. He continued through the streets, and I followed, amazed by what I had seen. He was still calling out in the same voice I had heard earlier, only shaking from the tears, "New rags for old! New rags for old!"
After we walked a little longer, he came upon a little filly with a bandage wrapped around her head, a line of blood trickling down her face from beneath it. Again, he stopped, unhitched from his cart, retrieved a stuffed bear from the pile, and went over to the little girl. He gently unwrapped the old bandage, and the wrapped it tightly around his own head. He smiled at her, and gave her the bear. The filly turned her head, and I saw that there was not a wound. The bandage on the rag-stallion's head suddenly became as bloodstained as it was before, a line of the stallion's own blood running down his face, dripping behind him as he resumed his walk through the dirty streets, calling, "Rags! New rags for old!". I followed him, and realized that he was walking faster that before, as if the wounds and tears somehow strengthened him.
After some time, at about noon, he met a unicorn leaning against a light-post. He approached the unicorn, and asked him, "Sir, why do you just stand about? Have you no job?" The unicorn turned to the rag-stallion, a hint of a smile on his face. He said, "Are you crazy?" He shifted, and I gasped at what I saw. One sleeve of the unicorn's jacket hung limply to the side, blowing with every slight breeze. He was missing a foreleg. The stallion was surprised, and then looked at the unicorn with the same compassion he had shown to the others he had helped that day. He asked the unicorn for his jacket, which he gave him, and the stallion gave him his own jacket in return. when the rag-stallion removed his jacket, I gasped in shock. His foreleg stayed in the jacket! The unicorn put on the jacket, now with all four legs, and looked at the stallion with a look of shock. The rag-stallion then went about his way, now hobbling with the loss of a leg, though still moving even faster than before. I had to follow him, to see how this pony's sad story would end.
We made our way through the streets, the stallion still calling, "New rags for old!", when we came to an old pegasus, lying in the street, unconscious. He smelled of whiskey, and was covered with an old blanket from the Royal Guard. The stallion stopped, unhitched once again from his cart, and retrieved a bright, colorful Afghan blanket. He replaced the old, tattered blanket with the new one on his back. He draped the old military blanket over shoulders, now stumbling like he was drunk, and continued pulling his cart with the same strength he had before, if not more, calling "Rags! Rags! New rags for old!"
I followed him throughout the slums, watching as he traded his new cloths for old rags, gaining only diseases, boils, and age. He continued all day, and at nightfall I followed him out of town completely.He stopped at dump, full of piles of garbage, old wagons, and other refuse. He climbed to the top of a hill in the middle of the junkyard, piled the old rags in his cart on the ground, and lay down, still weeping, bleeding, and almost completely decimated. He covered himself with the old blanket, and died. The intense amount of wounds, pain, and sorrow was too much for one pony to handle. I, myself, began to weep, as I had come to love the stallion, watching as he selflessly took on the pain of others. I climbed into an old wagon ,and sobbed myself to sleep. I slept all night, and all through the next day. I did not awake until Sunday morning. When I did wake up, I found the stallion sitting at the top of his hill, with no wounds, all four legs, and as young as he had seemed two days before. he had folded the old blanket, and set it with the other rags, which were now clean, new, and unblemished. I ran to him, full of joy, and hugged him tightly, sobbing once again. He smiled down on me with the compassion he had shown to the other ponies in the slums, and returned the embrace tenfold. With tears in my eyes, I looked up at him ,and asked him,"Please, sir, take my old rags."
I gave him my old clothing, and he gave me new ones, with tears of joy now in his eyes. I left that junkyard a changed pony. I would now try to show as much care as I could to everyone I met. I knew it couldn't hurt. Not after what I had seen. I still think about him sometimes, wondering if I'll ever meet him again, and what I'll say to him if I do. Probably, Thank you.
