Justin Morgan | Project Gutenberg (2025)

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Justin Morgan | Project Gutenberg (1)

Modelled by Roger Noble Burnham.

“… THE FEEL OF HER CHEEK AGAINST HIS!”

THE ROMANTIC
HISTORY OF A HORSE

BY
ELEANOR WARING BURNHAM
(MRS. ROGER NOBLE BURNHAM)
AUTHOR OF THE “WHITE PATH” AND OTHER STORIES

ILLUSTRATED

FRONTISPIECE BY ROGER NOBLE BURNHAM

Justin Morgan | Project Gutenberg (2)

THE SHAKESPEARE PRESS
114-116 E. 28th STREET
NEW YORK
1911

Copyright, 1911, by
Eleanor W. Burnham.

TO

THE MEMORY OF

MY FATHER.

Justin Morgan | Project Gutenberg (3)

photograph by E. D. Johnston, Savannah.

ANNANDALE HOUSE

FOREWORD.

The establishment of an historic basis for this little romancewas fraught with many difficulties, owing to thegreat divergence in statement and opinions to be foundin regard to the life and origin of Justin Morgan. Theauthor was obliged to select from a mass of contradictorymaterial that which most nearly conformed with thepurpose and continuity of the story.

Therefore, if any find the history not to his way ofthinking she begs him to realize that it is, after all, buta detail which she hopes may be compensated for by themanner in which she has endeavored to bring out allthose noble characteristics for which the Founder of HisRace was famous.

In the frontispiece, modelled by Roger Noble Burnham,the portrait of Mistress Lloyd was posed for byMiss Fifi Willis, of Columbia, Missouri, to whom theauthor wishes to extend her thanks.

Eleanor Waring Burnham,
(Morgan Horse Club).

Magnolia, Massachusetts, September, 1911.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTERS. PAGE.
I. Early Influences 13
II. True Is Broken to Harness 24
III. Ceph’s Unhappy Fate 32
IV. Justin Morgan 36
V. True Meets His Father 41
VI. True Gazes Upon Mistress Lloyd, ofMaryland 46
VII. In which Mistress Lloyd, of Maryland,Gives True His First Ribband 51
VIII. True Goes to Found His Race 56
IX. True’s First Hard Work, and How HeAccomplished It 67
X. In which “True” Becomes “JustinMorgan” 72
XI. Morgan Tries Conclusions with theCoxcomb and His Friends 77
XII. Old Grey Tells Pioneer Tales 83
XIII. The Morgan Goes to Montpelier toLive 87
XIV. Morgan Makes a Trip to Boston 95
XV. For Mistress Lloyd, of Maryland 103
XVI. In which Morgan Is Known as theGoss Horse 113
XVII. In the Flood of 1811 121
XVIII. Under Captain Dulaney 127
XIX. He Meets His Lady Again 138
XX. The Naval Battle 146
XXI. Down Hill 152

INTRODUCTION.

The human side of horse-nature may have beentouched upon by various writers who have given usglimpses into this realm of thought, but it remainedfor the author of Justin Morgan, Founder of HisRace, to introduce us to a real character, as an individual,a horse of tradition, but whose lay is unsung.

Almost forgotten, this horse’s origin was wrapt inobscurity until recently, yet he became the sire of themost famous breed of horses in America.

Only those who have lived with horses, as I have—​outof doors and in my studio—​learn to know them asdistinct beings, as varied in their make-up and developmentas the human kind, affected by the same lawsand influences that stimulate or smother our mentalgrowth.

I dare not tell all I know to be true about the intelligenceand sagacity of our horse friends, for fear ofhaving my balance of mind subjected to doubt; but Iam quite ready to believe all that this author tells usof equine feelings and faithfulness, for she has beenprompted to relate this little tale of Old Justin Morganthrough love and intimate acquaintance with his descendants.

The author’s father was the first to introduce theMorgan horse into the State of Georgia—​in 1858—​whenhe purchased the celebrated Enterprise, G.G.G.G.son of Justin Morgan. Later he took out many others—​allof whom made his stock farm, Annandale, famous.

My own inherited associations with Vermont broughtme into relation with Morgan horses in childhood, whenI listened to tales of their wonderful powers of endurance,strength and intelligence, which maturer yearshave never made me doubt.

The early Morgan was the best all-round, general-purposehorse ever produced. They were highly valued,and New England breeders—​especially the Vermonters—​keptthe blood pure by breeding in parallel lines andthen inbreeding, by which means they established afixed type that has and will reproduce itself and maintainits characteristics for generations.

For a period of sixty years the Vermonters brednothing but Morgans, and during the Civil War Vermontwas one of the few places where horses could beobtained. They proved so efficient for cavalry purposesthat the State was almost stripped of them. It is wellknown that the best mounted regiments were on Morganhorses.

Their reputation was such that after the war the WestPoint Academy was furnished with none but Morgans,until about twenty-five years ago the Western horse hasbeen supplied as a substitute, greatly to the detrimentof the service.

Following the depletion made in 1861-65 came thepopularity of the Hambletonian horse to lead the Vermontersinto untried experiments of doubtful value. Theresult was that, by 1890, the pure Morgan horse wasfound to be the exception, and the few breeders whorealized what had been lost began to cherish the remnantsof an almost lost race, and prizes were offered forthe best Morgans.

Mr. Joseph Battell, upon whose investigations thisauthor has founded her historic narrative of the firstMorgan horse, gathered with infinite pains all the pedigreeshe could find and established The Morgan HorseRegister, which is now accepted as the authority.

In 1907 the Morgan horse-breeding work of theUnited States Government received a great impetuswhen Mr. Battell presented to the Department of Agriculturefour hundred acres of fine land lying two milesfrom Middlebury, Vermont, now known as the MorganHorse Farm, and equipped with farmhouse, stables,barns, etc., to which were removed all the horses fromthe Vermont Agricultural Experimental Station, nearBurlington.

The Morgan horse has always been noted for hislongevity, retaining his spirit and vigor in extreme oldage. They are free from almost every species of disease,showing their soundness of constitution. They matureearly, and are easily kept, because they are veryhardy. To-day they show the traits of Old JustinMorgan in their docility and symmetry of form, andthis Founder of his race, according to Mr. Battell, wasbut six generations of English breeding from the originalArab stock, including Byerly Turk and GodolphinArabian.

The Morgan horse has quietly won all the honors agrateful people can bestow upon him, and we are glad togreet his embodiment of character in this form.

H. K. Bush-Brown,
(Morgan Horse Club).

Washington, D. C.

JUSTIN MORGAN

CHAPTER I.

EARLY INFLUENCES.

Once upon a time—​but why should I begin this horse-taleas if it were a mere fairy-tale? It is founded onthe story of a real horse in a setting of incidents relatedin the histories of the various localities in which he lived.Where possible, history has been so closely followed asto use the real names of those vigorous pioneers whohelped to make it.

And so, upon a certain time—

In 1789,[1] when there were but thirteen stars on theAmerican flag, and George Washington was the newly-madePresident, near Springfield, Massachusetts, a coltwas born, a colt destined to become the founder of thefinest breed of horses ever known in America.

A wide, lush pasture on the gently-sloping bottomland, through which the Connecticut River winds itsway to the Sound, was the scene of his earliest gambolling.

Poised at a dizzy height, on wobbly, spindly legs,which showed little promise of the symmetry and beautyof later years, he romped near his mother’s protectingheels or rested in her shadow.

His merry, laughing companion was a brook whichflowed down to the river; he played along its willow-fringedbanks, racing with the beckoning waters untilout of breath; then, hurrying back to his mother throughthe gathering dusk, he would return with her to theirpleasant stable in the barnyard of Silas Whitman.

His developing colt-nature expanded, day by day, tothe beauties and interests about him. He loved thetwinkling waters, the overhanging trees, the fernsspiralling among dark-green shadows; the delicate scentof violets, peeping between moss-covered stones, delightedhis sensitive nostrils. He loved the birds, flutteringand swaying on boughs and chirping soft, sweetnotes. In response to all Nature his small-pointed earspricked and quivered. He blew his warm breath for funon butterflies and bees, as they fussed over dew-wet blossoms,but swerved aside, with trembling nostrils, at thestrident cry of a jay, waiting in the shadow for hischance of a practical joke!

The hoot of an owl, the bark of a fox, the crashingof a squirrel through the branches overhead, would makehim scamper to his mother’s side, panting and excited.

These were his baby fears; his real and lasting antipathywas to dogs; the distant howling of one seemed tofill him with terror; thunderstorms, too, made him nervousand, so impressible was he to these, he could tell,two days in advance, that one was coming; only muchurging could prevail upon him to leave the security ofhis stable when he felt the approach of one.

Gradually his mother taught him all that one good,faithful horse can teach another, not to show fear, notto shy, not to kick and never to be taken by surprise.He was happy and care-free then, for he did not haveto wear hard straps, called harness, nor draw heavyloads, nor wear iron shoes; and his bare, sensitive hoofssoon learned to tell the difference between safe and dangerousground. His sense of smell was singularly acuteand standing close to his mother’s side—​that she mightbetter brush the flies from both, with her long, usefultail—​he learned to distinguish poisonous from wholesomeweeds.

Master Whitman called him True Briton, 2d, for hiscelebrated father, True Briton, but the double name wassoon shortened to the very appropriate one of “True.”And, for convenience, we shall speak of his mother asGipsey.

Gipsey was one of those mothers, unknown to history,but to whose early influence her son possibly owedmuch of his success in later life. Sometimes it was necessaryfor her to reprove him; she nipped him sharply,if he were playful at the wrong time, or kicked toostrongly in fun; but she never had to admonish himtwice about anything on account of his remarkable memory.

One day, when she had to correct him, and was consciousof having lost her temper, she neighed apologetically.

“Alas, my son, I am no better than a woman!”

This was unjust, as True discovered later, for someof the strongest friendships of his life were for women;he found them ever generous with maple sugar and thegoodies for which he quickly learned to whinney at theirkitchen windows. They were more appreciative, too,and did not expect him to perform miracles, as men didwho set him tasks that taxed every nerve and muscle.

Early each morning Silas Whitman came to the barnyardto play with and train the colt, and from the beginningthe little creature showed marvellous characteristics.

Never did True forget his first sight of Man! Atthat time—​being quite new-come into the world—​he didnot know the ways of different animals, and thoughtMaster Whitman very curious as he walked about on hishind legs! The small colt wondered if he would haveto do the same when he grew older and his spindly legsgrew stronger. He did not fear the friendly man-creaturewho played so gently,—​little by little training himto obey and afterwards rewarding him with a bit ofmaple sugar. A kind word and a pat was always givento Gipsey, too, and mother and son very soon began towatch for their master’s coming, giving him welcome,with little whinneys, and throaty neighs, when theyheard his cheery whistle.

When True’s third molar came he had made the acquaintanceof a halter. Later in life he came to seethat the conveniences of a halter cannot be taught tooearly. He found out uses for his, all by himself; onewas that he could manage to throw the rein over haythat was too high in the rack to reach comfortably, andthus pull it down to an easy height. His mother thoughtthis very ingenious and praised him, which pleased thelittle fellow very much.

When the first molar of his permanent teeth came hehad been taught all about a bridle and bit—​things henever liked but made the best of, as Gipsey told himthey were inevitable.

When there were errands in the village Silas wouldhitch Gipsey up to the “shay” and allow True to trotalongside for exercise and experience. He enjoyedthese little jaunts under the giant elms that bordered thestreet, carpeted with a patchwork of sifting sunshine andcool shadow.

Over garden fences he could see green, succulent box-hedgesand one day, when he found a gate open, hetrotted boldly in to get a taste!

Scarcely had he begun to nibble when a dog dashedround the corner of the house, a boy at his heels. Whenthe latter caught sight of the intruder he gave a whoopand urged the dog to nip at True’s feet. The colt,startled, made a quick movement of self-protection withhis hard little heels and struck the dog on the head, effectuallysilencing his bark and rolling him over in thedirt.

A rock hit the colt’s side, but he did not tarry; excitedly,he plunged out of the open gate and raced downthe road after his mother, now full half mile away. Theodor of box was ever after associated, disagreeably,with boys and dogs in his mind.

When he related the incident to his friend, Caesar,the yellow stable cat, the latter purred conviction andconfided that for untold generations dogs had been thesworn enemies of his family.

“It may be possible for a boy, occasionally, to be politeand gentle; I do not know,” mewed the cat. “But asfor dogs! Well, you must unsheath your claws and archyour back on sight!”

Caesar was an independent cat of wide experience andhad travelled and lived in many barns; his opinion,therefore, had weight with True. One day, whilst rubbingagainst the colt’s leg, in his affectionate way, heremarked that if it had not been for Gipsey and Truehe would long since have returned to his last barn-home,where the mice had a sweeter flavor on account of acareless housewife who often left her cheese-box open.

“Besides,” he added, strutting about and waving histail with careless dignity, “there is a very nice tortoiseshellpussy waiting there for me!”

“But, do you know the way back?” asked True, interestedand not failing to admire, and be duly impressed,by Caesar’s swagger and importance.

“I know the way back well enough,” the cat bragged;but added with disgust, “In very truth, the jade whoput me in the bag forgot to shake the dust out of it;but such a trifle could not blind me!”

A very happy playground was the Whitman barnyard.Beside the horses there were two little red-and-whitecalves who romped in a way that entertained butalmost drove Caesar crazy. Before them he would flee,round and round, instead of getting out of their way atonce!

A curly-tailed, twinkling-eyed pig, very fat and funny,shared their life for a time; but one day he disappeared,noisily, and never returned.

In those days the memory of the British was freshin the minds of all; the War of the Revolution had beenover but a short eight years and the name “Red-Coat”still had an ominous sound. Gipsey, being an Americanmother, taught her son to hate the British and toldhim war-tales that made him quiver with patriotism.

One day the colt invented a game which he called“Chasing the Red-Coat,” and fine fun it was, to be sure!With one accord the calves and True made Caesar the“Red-Coat” because he was such a fleet runner! ThatCaesar did not think much of the game was obvious ashe dashed wildly at a tree and running up its trunk satspluttering at them, his fur on end, his tail straight inthe air.

Being interrupted by Silas,—​for daily exercise andpractise in the arts of being bitted and led about—​neverannoyed the colt. The calves and Caesar watched theseperformances, furtively, and wondered when their turnswould come; True always told them the fun he had andtook care to mention the subsequent reward of maplesugar.

For a short time a gentle pigeon came and sat betweenthe young horse’s ears and cooed, softly, whilsthe munched at his manger. This was agreeable to thesociable colt, but he was puzzled to notice that the birddid not like his other friend, the cat. True could seehow tactfully Caesar tried to win the affections of thepigeon, even reaching out a paw to pat him sometimes.

One day his feathered friend did not come to thestable at the usual time and when the cat sauntered inthat afternoon, with a look of keen content on his face,and a feather in his whiskers, True asked if he had seenthe pigeon.

Caesar had not, of course!

He added, however, as he placidly washed the featherfrom his face, that “birds often flew away and did notreturn!” His expression was so sincere and sympatheticthat the colt was no little comforted.

In spite of this treachery, Caesar was really fond ofTrue, and brought him, from time to time, tokens ofhis affection in the way of delicacies—​rats and mice hehad caught in his stealthy rounds—​sometimes a chicken’sfoot or a fish’s head from the kitchen. It was difficultfor True to refuse these cat-dainties without hurtingCaesar’s feelings, until he hit upon the clever expedientof pulling out a mouthful of delicious fodderfrom his rack and offering it in his turn to the cat!

One day the colt boasted to the cat that he “couldsee in the dark.”

Caesar purred, contemptuously, washing his face thewhile.

“That, my friend,” he said, “is a mere trifle, hardlyworth bragging about! Now, if you could but speakthe human language, then, indeed, would I wave my tailand meow, ‘Hail, Master!’”

True was abashed, but said:

“Nay, my mother says speech is but a vain and doubtfulgood, especially in women!”

To this sally the cat had no reply, both he and Gipseyhad known women better than the yearling True.

One day Silas brought a black lamb to the pasture,who at once made friends with the colt. The tworomped and played together, much as human childrenmight. For the timid little creature True came to havea deep attachment; he liked the feel of the warm littlebody against his leg. No doubt they exchanged ideasabout things of interest as they listened to the brook,singing happily of woods and meadows through whichit had run on its way to the river.

This sweet friendship lasted many days, but it wasdestined to end in a tragedy—​one that must be relatedas it bore so directly upon the sudden awakening of someof the traits in the colt’s character.

On the edge of a near-by forest there was a rude hutin which dwelt a family of outlaws who lived on theirneighbors and left honest dealing to others. Roundabout the countryside it was whispered they were“Tories,” and Gipsey told True the evil odor borne onthe breeze from that direction was sufficient assurancethat this was so; the outlaws were, indeed, British, andthe wildest crew that ever stole a horse or fired a haystack!

One day, as True stood wrapt in thought beside thestream, admiring the courage that made it sing as happilyin sunshine as in shadow, on dark days as on bright,Black Baby, as the lamb was called, came from theother side of the pasture and rubbed against his leg.Seeing in a moment that the colt was preoccupied, thelamb whisked away to wait for the usual whinney of invitation.

The Tory hut showed clear in the morning sunlightand, absently, a moment later the colt glanced that way.To his astonishment he saw the youngest boy, a ne’er-do-wellwho had stolen pumpkins and apples from hisneighbors all his life, unloose a lean, gaunt dog andstart towards the pasture.

This young fiend was, oddly enough, named WilliamHowe, quite enough in itself to set an American bythe ears! True recalled in a flash all his mother hadtold him of the British General of the same name.[2]

“How, now,” he thought, “why comes the young robberthis way?”

Black Baby continued to frisk about, trying to divertTrue from his serious mood. He sprang into the air andtossed his little head, cutting all manner of capers, butthe colt did not seem inclined to join him in play.

William Howe climbed to the top of the stone fenceand, balancing himself adroitly, gazed around as if tolocate any possible mischief.

The dog sprang nimbly over and, yelping, ran afteran innocent rabbit that bounded across the pasture likean India rubber ball, his short pennant making an almostunbroken line of white over the green grass as hefled before his enemy. Luckily he reached the oppositefence in time and darted behind the protecting stones;baffled, the dog stood barking, furiously.

Soon the boy put his fingers in his lips and whistled,shrilly.

Time and again True had warned Black Baby of thisvery dog, but the lamb, having known only love andkindness all his little life, forgot, and frolicked gaily towardshim!

William Howe cried out in delight, “Sick him, Cornwallis!”

The cosset lamb stood an easy mark for the dog andin an instant lay gasping on the ground, the blood flowingfrom a horrid wound in his throat. His sobbingbreath found an echo in True’s heart and for the firsttime the colt lost control of himself.

Overcome with a thirst for vengeance, and, screamingas only a horse does when the strait is desperate, heplunged and reared. With a well-aimed blow of his hard,very dark, front-feet he knocked the dog senseless.

This did not satisfy the lamb’s champion; he stampedthe body of the wicked beast into the earth, crushingbones as if they had been straws! Furiously he bit, andfinally caught the limp carcass in his strong teeth andthrew it high in the air. For the moment he was ademon and sought, savagely, for more ways to wipethe remains out of existence!

Suddenly he remembered William Howe who stood ata distance, pelting him with stones. Uttering anotherfierce cry he turned upon the boy, baring his teethhideously between his firm lips.

Howe made for the fence, where the desperate rabbithad sought cover, and scrambled over, thinking to besafe on the other side; he did not know the colt wasdescended from the “birds of the desert!”

True was not even aware of a barrier! As if he hadwings he soared over it, doubling his hind-feet closeunder his body a little to one side.

A tree was all that saved the boy’s life. Swinging upby a low-hanging branch, with the agility of a cat, hefound himself out of breath and out of reach of thecolt’s gleaming teeth. From wide, scarlet nostrils thehot and excited breath of the maddened animal reachedhis bare feet.

The Tory scent that came down to True only increasedhis anger, but not being able to reach the boy,he resolved that the kicking he owed him could be postponed—​foryears, if necessary—​but some day, some day,it would be delivered! Furthermore—​he would kicknothing until that day arrived and he met this boy againon level ground!

How he kept his vow we shall see later.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] According to Joseph Battell. Encyclopedia Britannica says1793.

[2] In 1776, Sir William Howe commanded an army of 55,000men in an effort to put down “the wicked rebellion.”

CHAPTER II.

TRUE IS BROKEN TO HARNESS.

Even, pleasant and cheerful was True’s natural disposition,but besides these traits there were others thatwent to make up the peculiar perfection horse-flesh hadattained in the twenty-five years before his birth.

A courage, vitality, and zest seemed to be in the veryair of the world at that period of horse history, and theblend—​through his father—​of Arabian, Barb and Turkhad produced in him the most ideal of horse characters.

That Southern strain was, no doubt, stimulated bythe clear, bracing climate of New England, and the combinationof circumstances which developed his musclesand expanded his chest, made him the fit founder of arace.

About the year he was born Eclipse, his kins-horse,died.

Eclipse was that four-footed bird “behind whom thewhirlwind toiled in vain” and who, in his greatest race,“beat the other horse by two hundred yards, withouturging!”[3]

Since then men have said that Eclipse ran “a mile aminute,” but Gipsey told her son differently; she knewhorses only ran against each other, not against time.

She also told the colt the part his family had playedin the late War, and how General Washington, himself,had ridden one of them at Trenton; but she was obligedto confess, with a droop of her spirited tail, that hisfather, True Briton had, in his youth, served a Britishofficer.

So graphic were some of these war-tales that the younghorse quivered, and almost imagined he heard the crackof muskets and smelt the smoke of battle! He dreamedlongingly of a time when he, too, might serve his countryunder the saddle of some brave soldier, and his nostrilsgrew wide and his eyes fiery at the hope whichwas so long afterwards to be realized.

Had she been a woman, and men had seen the workingsof her mind as she instructed her son, Gipsey mighthave been called a witch and as such been burned. Withpointing ears and ember-like eyes she neighed softly tohim of the Desert; she seemed to hear its call; to see itstrackless wastes, and afar, at its limits, she told himgroves of olive and date, and pools of clear, cool waterlay.

One day, with that far-off look in her eyes, she said tohim, prophetically:

“When other horses, now famous, are forgotten, myson, your memory will live on, your influence will stillbe felt. Men will still love you and you will be praisedand revered by all who have knowledge of excellence inhorse-flesh. A state will be noted for its horses, andAllah has chosen you to be the first of this line.”

She told him to be ever brave, gentle, and loving;obedient to his master, Man; not to falter, not to turnback never mind the cost.

She told him how to anticipate a command, that hemight obey, instantly, and he afterwards became so proficientin this sense that when he came to be trained toharness he obeyed Silas Whitman’s every gesture, as ifinstinctively, often before the words themselves came.In later life, becoming more experienced, he often tookthe initiative in times of danger or peril.[4]

When True was a little over a year old Master Whitmanbrought a piebald horse to live in their stable. Poorold Ceph was of low birth and very stupid.

“In the Desert,” Gipsey told him, “the Arabs say, ‘ifpiebald, flee him as the pestilence, for he is own brotherto a cow’!”

Ceph turned out to be a “stump-sucker” or “piper,”and the grunts and groans accompanying his gnawingdisturbed the other two horses intensely. At last whenhe began on the partition between his stall and True’sit was too much for the colt to bear in silence and patience.He determined to cure him in some way, thoughat first he did not see how it was to be done.

One day, however, a bit of chain was left hangingon his manger and, when he pushed it with his nose, itmade a jangling noise. Ceph, always curious, stoppedhis “cribbing” long enough to listen, dully, with his flappingears, and to wonder what it was.

After a short time True found, to his surprise andsatisfaction, that he could lift the chain with his teethand, as he was now tall enough for his chin to reachthe top of the partition, it occurred to him he could usethe bit of iron to very good advantage.

He laid his plans accordingly and bade Caesar be onhand to see the fun.

About midnight Ceph began to gnaw.

Quick as wink True had the chain in his teeth andover the wall it went—​crack—​right between Ceph’sfloppy ears!

Such amazement there never was in any dull horse’squiet, stupid mind! He squealed and sprang one side,startled into anger and affright. But when he recoveredhimself all was still; no suspicious noises came from hisneighbor’s stall.

Caesar had been standing on his hind legs, peepingthrough a hole in the partition and at sight of Ceph’sbewilderment, he rolled over in a paroxysm of mirth, asif he did not have a bone in his body, while True stoodmotionless, guarding their secret.

Presently, very cautiously, Ceph began to gnaw againon the wood of his manger.

In his haste to give another lick, True nearly steppedon the prostrate cat, but, holding his foot poised a moment,Caesar sprang lightly from under it just as amighty swing took the chain over the barrier.

Ceph threw his head into the air, indignantly, but hissuspicions were unconfirmed the silence next door wasso intense; then, to add to his perplexity, he heard Gipseywake with a groan and a stamp.

“Will we never get any rest!” she neighed, hopelessly.

True whinneyed softly, over her side of his stable, tobe of good cheer, the worst was over. And afterwardsthe least sound from Ceph brought a rattling of themysterious chain which had struck him so hard on thehead.

For a few nights this went on, but finally successcrowned the colt’s efforts and much to the satisfactionof all, Silas included, Ceph stopped gnawing.

This was not the only time True showed ingenuity.He learned many useful though not mischievous tricksall by himself, but it is not to be supposed that Silasthought as much of them as Gipsey. The colt discoveredhow to open all the gates, but, as he never thoughtto close them, their barn-companions wandered out andnever returned without being sent for though the horsesalways came home in good temper after their wanderingsin time for the evening meal. At last locks andkeys were put on everything, and this was the first intimationTrue had that his pleasant little accomplishmentwas not appreciated by his master. As he grewolder he eliminated the unpopular trick from his list.

One day, being thirsty, he began to consider how hecould open the rain barrel, in which Mistress Whitmancaught water for her washing. He tried hard to pushthe cover to one side, but some clever human contrivancemade it catch, and so, after trying several other ways,he found the simple and right one of catching the handlein his strong young teeth and lifting straight upward!

Sometimes when he had done this and drunk all thewater he wanted, he would pick the cat up by the scruffof the neck with his teeth and hold him over the barrel,meowing desperately, for of all things Caesar hatedwater! True was only teasing him, but the cat neverknew that, and a spasm of terror would chill his marrowat thought of being dropped in.

The death of Black Baby made True more serious andearnest. He went about his daily tasks with interestand spirit, but he did not romp so much and listenedmore attentively to his mother’s teachings.

One day he found himself hitched up in harness withold Piebald, Ceph. Silas had thought Gipsey too spiritedto begin him with, but True walked so fast, and—​thoughvery unsteadily at first—​trotted so much faster than hismate that the next day he was taken out with his mother.

From her he had learned the Royal Road to Happinessand Success: “Obedience first, last, and all thetime!”

It was, indeed, a proud day for the colt.

Easy it was for a horse to obey Silas Whitman, hewas so careful to explain, and to be sure they understood;he never let them get fretted trying to find outwhat he wanted by themselves.

As soon as True found he was not expected to run orgallop in harness, he settled down to walking or trottingin his nervous brisk way, and soon the gaits of motherand son were evenly matched.

As time increased True became more and more lovableand people came for miles to see him; some evenwanted to buy him and offered as much as twenty-fivedollars. But Silas refused all offers for his pet. Verysoon he was hitched to the “shay” alone. He steppedout bravely enough feeling the friendly hand of his masterto advise and guide him. Then again he had a turnunder the saddle; this was freer for there were not somany rules to remember!

When they went on trips of the latter kind, Silas,who was a very well-informed man, talked to him andtold him many interesting things and gave him muchinstruction. Sometimes, on their way home over openfields, grassy knolls and wooded hillsides, Silas wouldtake the wrong turning and leave True to find out theright way by himself. That strange sense of directionin horses was singularly acute in True and they invariablyreached home safely, the horse enjoying this confidenceof his rider.

One sunny day when the little horse was nearly twoyears old, they were returning from a trip up the riverwhen Silas swooned, it was a sickness to which he wassubject, and, slipping from the saddle to the road, herolled into the ditch. True, no little disturbed, stoodthoughtful a moment, wondering what he could do forhis unconscious friend. Finally he caught hold of theContinental collar with his teeth and drew him gentlyup on the grassy border of the road, under the shade ofan oak. Looking around he whinneyed for help, but,as no answer came, he turned and galloped homeward,nor did he go by the longer way of the road. Overrough, uneven, cleared spaces, he went; stone fencesstretched across his way; here and there strips of densewoods interfered with but did not retard his speed orintention.

When he neared the house a curl of blue smoke toldhim where he would find Mistress Whitman, nor was hemistaken. He trotted straight to the kitchen windowat which he was wont to receive goodies from her generoushands; there she stood, slender and womanish, besidea pot of soup, hanging on the crane, whose warmfragrance permeated the air.

True whinneyed sharply. She looked up, and, seeingthe empty saddle, started with anxiety and hastenedout. The horse rubbed his nose on her sleeve andneighed his message, softly.

She seemed to understand the horse-language at onceand, leading him to the horse-block, climbed into the saddlewithout delay.

And this was True’s first experience of carrying alady! She was so light of weight, and she spoke tohim so fearlessly, that he drew much comfort throughhis bridle-rein. He started off at an even canter nothesitating at his stable door, though it must have beenhard to pass the appetizing sound of Gipsey and Cephmunching at their supper.

This time he took the road, in a long smooth gait,and after a short time reached the strip of woods whereSilas had been left.

Master Whitman, thin and very bright of eye, wassitting up now, and seemed much better, so his goodwife aided him to mount the horse and climbed up behindhim; thus they set out toward home, and True hadhis first experience of “carrying double.”

What a supper the “pony” had that night!

Oats, dry as pease, corn and carrots, a little flaxseedjelly, and chopped hay springled with salt.

’Twas a supper fit for Eclipse, himself!

FOOTNOTES:

[3] Eclipse and O’Kelly, page 88; Theodore Andrea Cook, M. A.,F. S. A.

[4] In 1891 President Benj. Harrison attended a meeting ofThe Association of Road and Trotting Horse Breeders, at WhiteRiver Junction, Vermont. In the course of his remarks on thatoccasion he said: “I understand that it was so arranged thatafter I had seen the flower of manhood and womanhood in VermontI should be given an exhibition of the next grade in intelligenceand worth in the State—​your good horses. I had, recently,through the intervention of my Secretary of War, the privilegeof coming into possession of a pair of Vermont horses. They areall I could wish for, and, as I said the other day at the littlevillage from which they came, they are of good Morgan stock,of which some one has said, ‘their greatest characteristic is thatthey enter into consultation with the driver, or rider, wheneverthere is a difficulty.’”—​The Morgan Horse, page 27, JosephBattell.

CHAPTER III.

CEPH’S UNHAPPY FATE.

Never had Ceph been treated kindly by anyone; he’dnever had “half a chance in life,” as Gipsey said. Nobodyever praised him, everybody blamed him, and hehad nothing but blows and hard words for his portion.Even his food, which always came irregularly, had tobe gobbled, for fear time enough to eat it comfortablywould not be given him! Nobody ever rubbed him downwhen he was hot and tired, and his work was harder andmore exacting than that of the other two.

For the most part he took it philosophically, with onlyan occasional groan until, perhaps, he saw better foodmeasured out for his neighbors than was measured outfor him, then he stamped and grunted and sometimes bitat them, crossly.

For many years he had been subject to spavin, at timeshis hock swelled badly and he went lame and limpedpainfully. At last Silas could close his eyes no longerto the fact that unless something were done for the oldhorse he would become entirely useless.

In Springfield a horse doctor lived who knew, amongother things, how to “fire” a spavined hock. True hadonce seen this man thrust a sharp knife into a horse’smouth who had lampers; the flow of warm red blood hadmade the colt shudder and, remembering this, he wasvery sorry when he found out this cruel person was tovisit Ceph.

Gipsey recalled that this Dr. Quack had once beensent for to see a neighbor’s suffering cow; he arrived,looking wise and solemn, and declared the cow had adisease called “hollow-horn.” He thereupon split hertail lengthwise and filled the raw opening with salt andpepper.[5]

The poor cow died, and none but her barn-mates knewthe distressing fact that she had really died of “hollowstomach,” not “hollow horn,” because their owner was socruelly economical with food!

It was with no little sorrow that True recognized thecoarse, rasping voice of the “doctor” when he came tosee Ceph late one evening.

Through a crack in their darkening stalls True espiedthe red-hot crow-bar, and the guttering tallow dip Silashad lighted and brought from the kitchen.

Piebald Ceph had always been a mild-tempered horse,but scarce had the firing-iron touched his hock than hesent it—​and the candle—​flying into the hayloft, with anunexpected and well-directed kick.

Before a horse could have whinneyed the place was inflames, the dry hay dropping in blazing bunches fromoverhead.

A diabolic scene followed!

Seconds passed like hours.

True jerked his halter loose in terror, snapping therope sharply; his heart almost ceased to beat, he was sofrightened. Gipsey, locked in her stall, uttered a scream,as horses sometimes do when overcome with fear: oldCeph, crowding into the extreme corner of his stable,groaned pitifully.

It was like a roaring furnace, the heat intense, thesmoke suffocating.

The shouting of the men was drowned in the confusedmingling of horrible sounds as the flames leapedand licked the dry hay and caught the well-seasoned timbers.

The horrid odor of burnt hair, a sudden silence inCeph’s stall, told a heart-rending tale. The echoes ofhis mother’s cry had hardly died away when True felta cool, wet cloth thrown over his eyes and held tightly;something struck him violently, and a voice spoke to himin such a tone of command that he forgot everything and,trembling like a leaf, allowed himself to be led into theouter air.

Then, vaguely at first, he recognized Mistress Whitman’stones, soothing now, and tender, albeit very shaky!

“Come, my little pet, there’s naught to fear now!”

And, trusting her, the colt followed tractably enoughas she led him up two stone steps into the kitchen andtook the bandage from his eyes.

Then she hurried out, closing the door tight.

An awful crash, a sudden greater roar, then ominoussilence—​the barn roof had fallen in!

“Alas, my poor mother!” groaned True.

The rattling of a tin pan at his side made him turn;to his everlasting joy he saw Gipsey, safe and sound ashimself, shut up in the kitchen.

Gipsey was an excitable mare, and began to pranceabout the place in an unseemly way, switching kettlesand pewter pots off the table with her nervous tail andknocking them to the floor with a monstrous racket.

Finally she pushed the cover from the swinging poton the crane. Luckily the fire had been out some timeand the delicious contents of the pot barely warm, elseshe would have had her nose burned. The odor of themash proved very enticing and she was greedily, or maybethoughtlessly, about to drink it all, when True pushedher one side, as if to remind her of her manners, andfinished it himself—​little dreaming, either one of them,it was the Whitman’s frugal supper.

During their feast the uproar outside had subsided,and in a little while Silas and his wife came in, saying itwas all over with poor old Ceph.

The noses of the two rescued horses were gray andgreasy with the rich mash, but in the thankfulness oftheir escape the Whitmans cared nothing for that. MistressWhitman put her cheek against True’s soupy faceand sobbed in a very womanish way for joy at his beingspared to them.

The young horse submitted patiently to her caresses,though her hair, looking like dry, crisp hay, smelled mortallyof smoke; he saw it was a comfort to her woman-heartto hang about his neck and murmur softly in hisear:

“True, dear little horse,” she whispered. “It doesn’tmatter about Ceph.”

“There it is again,” thought True. “Nobody careswhether poor old Ceph is burnt up or not.”

And nobody did, as long as Gipsey and he were saved.

FOOTNOTES:

[5] Once a common practice among the negroes of the South.

CHAPTER IV.

JUSTIN MORGAN.

In True’s third year, Master Whitman came one morning,betimes, to brush him down before taking him outfor his usual exercise—​so the “pony” thought. Butafter a while he was convinced that his master calledhim names more loving and tender than usual and thathis voice had a sorrowful ring.

Gipsey and True knew that hard times had come knockingat the farm-gate and that their kind master was indebt because his crops had failed the year before. Theyknew, too, if the worst came to the worst they mighthave to be sold to pay these debts.

On this particular morning Master Whitman murmuredsadly to his pet as he continued to polish the sidesof his symmetrical body until they shone like the bosomof the river when the afternoon sunlight played uponit; and his heavy mane and tail were brushed until theywaved lightly under every passing breeze.

With unfailing intuition the colt saw the future: theirhappy home, alas, was about to be broken up. EvenCaesar felt the prevailing gloom; dejectedly, he sat on abeam and washed his face for the fifth time that morning,though it was but just sunrise.

Gipsey peered over the partition of their stall andwhinneyed softly, but with resignation, for, wise oldhorse that she was, she knew it was the lot of horses tobe parted, sooner or later—​here to-day, there to-morrow.

Presently the cat sprang nimbly down, and archinghis back, rubbed himself against his master’s leg andpurred with sympathy.

In spite of a certain sadness, True himself felt no littleexcitement—​anticipating adventure, as is the manner ofyouth first starting out into the great world. He didnot then know the horrors of homesickness from whichaffectionate horses suffer so keenly—​suffering that neithersugar nor salt can assuage.

Master Whitman had always made play and pleasureof training, and had never given True a task he couldnot perform. For this reason the horse accepted everyorder unhesitatingly, with the confidence of absolutetrust. They had become so endeared to one another forthese and sundry other causes that the idea of a partingwas inexpressibly saddening to both.

When, a half hour later, True was hitched to the“shay”—​which he now pulled with such ease and pleasure—​hefared forth, sad at heart, but eager and brisk ingait, as usual. The day had advanced and, as they travelled,the river glinted gold in the light which the morningsun threw over the fringe of trees along its banks.Very soon they arrived at the tavern where alreadyseveral teams stood waiting.

Throwing the reins loosely on the horse’s back—​for hehad been trained to stand without hitching—​Silas Whitmansprang from the “shay” and entered the tavern.

He was gone the best part of an hour, and when hereturned he was not alone. A tall, slender strangerwalked beside him, and as they drew near the colt perceivedfrom the odor of this man that he was a pleasant-temperedperson and friendly to animals.

Indeed, True liked him at once, and ’twas well, for thepale, scholarly looking man whose name he would oneday bear, was none other than Justin Morgan, who hadonce lived in Springfield, but had moved to Randolph,Vermont, in 1788, with his family.

As Master Morgan pressed the muscles of the younghorse the latter did not flinch nor draw away. Then themouth had to be examined and the feet looked at, oneby one. Questions had to be answered and other investigationsmade, common among men engaged in ahorse deal.

Master Whitman answered the questions, or stood ingrave silence, his eyes moist with the tears he couldnot entirely hide, as his acquaintance considered True’svarious traits.

“Yes, sir,” the stranger finally said, “this colt, as yousay, is free from natural blemish and is not disfiguredby that cruel, prevailing practice of branding. He seemssound…. You say he is the son of De Lancey’s TrueBriton, and his mother a descendant of the LaytonBarb?”

“I repeat it,” replied Silas Whitman, “these are thefacts, to the best of my belief.”

He could scarcely trust himself to speak.

“He is remarkably well ribbed-up and firm under themane, for so young a horse,” said Master Morgan, “buthe is small.”

“He is not yet entirely developed,” was the answer.“You see, he is, as yet, scarce three years old. But heis a bit over fourteen hands, and weighs already upwardsof nine hundred pounds. I told you he might be calleda pony, except for his characteristics.”

“No doubt he will increase in weight, and maybe a bitin height,” Master Morgan agreed. “His Arabian ancestrywould account for his size. Not that I am oneof those foolish persons who considers size necessary forperfection,” he hastily added. “Since I have seen himI am willing to take him in place of the twenty-five dollarsyou owe me, though twenty-five dollars is a largesum, and I am a poor man. Shall we call it settled?”

For a moment True thought his old master wouldsurely have one of his spells of faintness, but when hefinally spoke his voice was brave and steady.

“The pony,” he said, gently, “will be ready for you inthe morning.” He rested his arm across True’s neck,while the stranger looked away for a moment. “Thislittle horse,” Silas continued, after a pause, having recoveredhimself, “has been to me what the ‘steed of thedesert’ is to his Arab master. When I part with himI give you the best friendship I ever had; the best workof three years, spent in training and developing the intelligenceof this remarkable horse. And, mark you, hewill live to bear out the confidence I have in him. Ihave ever treated him as a human being; I have rompedwith him, played with him, talked to him as I might havetalked to a child—​if Providence had blessed my wifeand me with such a treasure—​but I have ever insistedupon obedience and respect, as a father should insist uponthese qualities from a child.”

“As I insist upon in mine,” acquiesced Master Morgan,as Silas hesitated a moment, feeling he was perhapssaying too much.

“There is but one thing more I would add,” went onSilas, feeling a friendly sympathy from Master Morgan.“Be good to him and he will be faithful to you, teachhim to love you and his willing service will be to you andyours until the end. He does not know what faltermeans, and if you are wise you will never let him findout by asking him to do impossible things. Ask ofhim only that which is within his power and he willnever fail you.”

Kind-hearted Master Morgan grasped Whitman’shand. “I shall not forget,” he said, deeply touched.

That night Caesar climbed on the rack of True’s stalland dropped lightly down on the horse’s back, where hepurred an undying affection and sorrow at his friend’sapproaching departure. Hoping to cheer him a little,the cat told many anecdotes of other stables and barnswhich he suggested True might some time visit, but theheavy sadness could not be lifted from their hearts. Gipseygave him advice, and at midnight Master Whitmancame to see if all were well with his pet. At cock-crowMistress Whitman appeared with a most delicious breakfastas a parting favor.

Silas had just finished rubbing the young horse downwhen his new owner came, bringing his own saddle andbridle—​and very easy and comfortable they were, too.

When the sad partings were over, True stepped fearlesslyout on his way to the broad highway of the world,where he was to have so many sweet and bitter experiences.

CHAPTER V.

TRUE MEETS HIS FATHER.

“‘Oh, ’twas a joyful sound to hear,

Our tribes devoutly say,

Up Israel, to the Temple haste,

And keep your festal day!’”

It was Justin Morgan, singing his favorite hymn, inhis light tenor voice, and True pointed his ears to betterhear the agreeable sound.

Master Morgan was not a strong man physically, andhis ways were those of a scholar and student, but he waslovable and staunch and true, and, lilting the stave of“Mear” he set out on the road to the southward.

Along the bank of the tranquil river stretched thehighway to Hartford, and it was Master Morgan’s planto exhibit his new horse at the great fair so soon to beheld in that fine city.

It was near sunset when they arrived, and True steppedout so smartly, and Justin Morgan, being a great rider,the people paused in the streets to admire them, as theycantered easily on to the public stable to rest and refreshthemselves.

True’s name was now changed to “Figure,” the nameonce borne by a famous horse, dead some years since;and under this name he came to be known through thecolumns of that very respected paper, The HartfordCourant.

“Next to his own father, sir,” True heard the hostlersay, as he led him into a stall and snapped the catch ofthe halter into the ring. “Now what do you think ofthat? The horse in the next box, sir, is Mr. Selah Norton’sBeautiful Bay, him that was True Briton.”

Master Morgan looked in at the splendid animal andsaid, “Oh, the De Lancey horse, eh? A fine fellow he isstill, I see, in spite of his age. Well, all I can say is,mine is the ‘worthy son of a worthy sire’!”

True quivered. Already the great world was offeringadventure and reward. Crowding through his veinsthe fire of his father’s race throbbed and surged, hismane shook and he flicked his waving tail with eager anticipation.His alert ears pointed back and forth withattention, his eyes glowed and his wide nostrils trembledas he inhaled the scent of his father for the first time.Proud and vigorous, he pawed the floor to attract BeautifulBay; now and then he glanced with feigned carelessnessthrough a wide crack.

Full soon he was rewarded by a sight of the gleamingeye of his neighbor at the same aperture.

For a moment they gazed in silence; then True took astep forward, and raising his nose to the top of the partitionmet the firm tip of his father’s.

Without further demonstration an affection sprang upbetween the two.

In the course of time the hostler came to lead the newhorse out, in the deepening twilight, to show him tosome visitors. The interest True took in the performance,one could be reasonably certain, was not on accountof the visitors, but because he was well aware of hissplendid father’s interest and admiration.

That night when all was quiet the old war-horse said:

“You are like your mother, my son, I remember herwell—​and a fine, noble mare she was, to be sure. Herhoof beat music from the path and she struck the roadwith the same nervous tread that I see you have—​as apigeon in full career repulses the air. She scoffed athills and mounted them with a dash of spirited flight, asif she joyed in their difficulties.”

True recalled his mother’s admiration of his father,and his heart beat gratefully at these words. He, too,remembered Gipsey’s poetic motion, her rhythmic step, asif she trod an even melody, and her willingness to takea hill.

“As his name is, so is he,

If you believe not, come and see!”

So The Hartford Courant described Beautiful Bay, andthe rhyme was a by-word about the town—​for they werevery proud of Beautiful Bay in Hartford. It was notlong before True heard the couplet in the stables, andright proud was he to be the son of so praised a father.

Beautiful Bay told True many stirring tales in thequiet nights they spent so close together, for the olderhorse had ever been a “soldier of Fortune” and his lifeone of constant change and excitement.

It was a great boast for a horse to say he had beenbred in the De Lancey stables, for those De Lanceys,like Mahommed, had been lovers of horses, and theirstables and half-mile running track, in the centre of whatwas so soon to be the very heart of the great city ofNew York, was the finest in the Northern Colonies beforethe War of the Revolution.

Gay blades were those De Lanceys, and their rightfulinheritance was the sporting blood of old England, thoughthey were, after all, part Huguenot, part Dutch, by ancestry.

Colonel De Lancey, True Briton’s first owner, had marrieda Mistress Van Courtlandt, whose family had a Kingand a Bishop at their backs, and occupied half the importantposts under the crown. He was a rollicking,generous, reckless gentleman, at home alike in drawing roomor on the course, but when, through stress of circumstances,this British officer had to change his mode ofliving, there was a sale of his horses at John Fowler’sTavern, near the Tea-Water Pump, in Bowery Lane.All the favorites went but his especial saddle horse, TrueBriton—​who now frankly admitted to his son his worthand beauty in those days. Indeed, he seemed to have nofalse modesty about it at all, and confessed his superiorityover all his stable-mates, even though among them therewere such horses as Lath and Slamerkin.

According to the accounts of the old horse his youthhad been spent in a time the like of which True couldnever see. He told of the gaily dressed dandies—​waitingon ladies in silks and satins and waving plumes—​atthe meets; of the sudden seal of disapproval Congresshad put upon the dissipations and extravagances of therace-course; of how the Annapolis Jockey Club had setthe foolish fashion of economy by closing its course; ofhow the grass grew up in the one-time splendid CentreCourse at Philadelphia.

But of all his anecdotes the tale of how True Britonbecame a true Patriot interested the young horse most,and ran in this wise:

Colonel De Lancey was stationed at Westchester withhis regiment, which was known far and wide as “TheCow-Boys,” because they stole cattle from the “Skinners”(a name given the farmers at that time).

At last the latter resolved to appeal to the Colonel-in-commandfor a protection of their rights and property.Accordingly, “Skinner Smith” called upon Colonel DeLancey, a white handkerchief tied to a stick, to show apeaceful errand, and made complaint of the depredationsof the “Cow-Boys.”

Now the Colonel, ever cool and gay, as became a DeLancey, cried out with a great laugh:

“These be the chances of war, my lack-beard. If mygood soldiers need cattle, or food of other kind, and youwill not give it to them, egad! they must steal it! Bestcurb your uncouth tongue and be gone!”

“Then, by my lack of beard!” quoth Skinner Smith,nettled—​he was an impudent young scamp, and feared noone—​“‘What is sauce for the goose, is sauce for thegander!’ If these be the ‘chances of war,’ look well tothat fine horse of yours! I warn you fairly, others canbe cattle stealers, too! I warn you fairly—​and nowwish you a very good day.”

It chanced that under cover of darkness one night,shortly afterward, Colonel De Lancey rode to see hismother at some distance and left True Briton hitchedat the door-step.

Young Smith, waiting his “chance of war,” sprangfrom behind a tree as the door of the house closed, unhitchedthe horse, leaped into the saddle and plungingspurs into True Briton’s sides—​who, wide of eye and red-nostrilled,sprang forward—​did not draw rein until he waswell within the American lines.

The amazed and disgusted Colonel raised an alarm androused his orderlies, but too late. He never saw hisfavorite again until one fine day he found himself incarceratedin the jail at Hartford with many another“Red-Coat.”

Beautiful Bay, then in the possession of Mr. SelahNorton, was standing in front of Bull’s Tavern, acrossMeeting House Green.

“Blood will tell, in men as well as horses,” finishedBeautiful Bay. “When Colonel De Lancey recognizedme he threw me a laughing greeting and a wave of thehand. I could almost hear what his parted lips weresaying: ‘The chance of war, my friend!’”

CHAPTER VI.

TRUE GAZES UPON MISTRESS LLOYD, OF MARYLAND.

The following day, laughter and talk outside the stableannounced that several persons had come to visit thehorses.

It chanced that among them was that brilliant quartetteof men, known as the “Hartford Wits,” with MasterTrumbull at their head.

The latter stood chatting with a mere slip of a girl,dark-eyed and merry. In her hand she carried a fine,thread-lace kerchief—​like gossamer films at dawn—​anda pouf of gauze fell away from her snowy throat. Shewore a perriot of flowered taffeta trimmed with herrisons,and from beneath her petticoat two little slipperedfeet peeped shyly. She was the most radiant being Truehad ever seen. Enraptured, he followed her with hiseyes whichever way she turned. For all her beauty, shewas yet strong and fine in her promise of fuller womanhood.There was a quick certainty about her every movement,and a steadiness of eye that showed no indeterminatecharacter.

Near her stood a Coxcomb, filling the air with odorsof musk and powders, offensive to the nostrils of the littlehorse who was led past him. A secret loathing forthis popinjay was born in his heart which he never outgrew.

“Ah, Mistress Lloyd,” said the Coxcomb, drawlinghis words disagreeably, and waving a scented lace-borderedhandkerchief, “what say you to Beautiful Bay?Have your kinsmen, Carroll of Carrollton, or the Hon.Edward Lloyd—​or, for the matter of that, the dashingTom Dulaney—​anything finer at their country-seats inMaryland? Is there anything in Virginia, or SouthCarolina, to compare with our Beautiful Bay?”

Smiling, the maid stepped in front of Beautiful Bayand held out a slender pink palm—​like the petals of wildroses True had seen on his way from Springfield—​on itlay a bit of maple sugar, and right proudly the old horsearched his neck and ate from her hand, picking up thecrumbs with his firm but flexible lips, that his hard teethmight not scar the tender flesh.

With her dainty kerchief she flicked his side lightly,replying evasively:

“We’ve nothing better groomed.” Turning to herfather she cried gaily, “Come hither, Daddy, dear, andtouch his satin coat!”

Beautiful Bay pranced a little to show his appreciation.

“Have a care, my child,” warned her father.

Her laughter rippled forth as she drew BeautifulBay’s muzzle down for a caress.

“It would not bite a maiden’s cheek, would it?” shecooed in his ready ear, and he trembled with joy at thesound. Young Mistress Lloyd’s “way with horses” wasknown from Maryland to Boston.

The Coxcomb flicked his riding boot impatiently withhis whip. This annoyed Beautiful Bay, who, thinkingto please the maid, turned abruptly to him and bared histeeth, flattening his ears.

The popinjay sprang to one side.

“He can’t abide smells!” explained the hostler, apologetically,as he led the old horse back into his stable.

And this was the first time that True saw MistressLloyd, of Maryland; though she had taken no notice ofhim, he never forgot it.

Deeply attached did the two horses become to eachother, and Old Worldly-Wise taught Young Innocencemuch that was afterwards of use to him. He told him ofthe city, where men sat, far into the night, and playedcards or other games by the glare of torchlight or waxcandle; of how they danced with or serenaded fair ladiestill cock-crow. It contrasted strangely with True’s formerquiet nights and peaceful days in the Valley of theConnecticut, but it interested him intensely and awakenedlongings within him.

He marvelled to see Beautiful Bay active and spiritedenough at his age to clear a five-barred gate like a greyhound,and to see his bearing under the saddle alikeyouthful and stylish.

The old horse had a fund of anecdotes to impart aboutthe Desert and its traditions.

“Arabs,” he said, “think it wicked to change theircoursers into beasts of burden and tillage. Why didAllah make the ox for the plough and the camel to transportmerchandise, if not that the horse was for the race?”

True had no answer ready, so Beautiful Bay continued:

“If you meet one of the Faithful in the Desert mountedon a kochlani, and he shall say to you, ‘God bless you!’before you can say, ‘And God’s blessing be upon you!’he shall be out of sight.”

True learned how to judge a horse by his color throughArabian tradition.

“White is for princes, but these do not stand the heat;black brings good fortune, but fears rocky ground; chestnutis most active—​if one tells you he has seen a horse‘fly in the air,’ and the horse be chestnut, believe him!”

There was a pause, during which True anxiouslywaited to hear what was said of bays.

Finally he asked.

“They say,” answered his father, with a certain naturalpride, “that ‘bay is hardiest and best.’ If one tells youhe has seen a horse ‘leap to the bottom of a precipicewithout hurting himself,’ and if he say ‘bay,’ believe him!”

And being bay, True was happy.

“The Arab,” continued the father, “who lives with hishorse, and prizes him above his family, as is most meetand proper, learns to know him well. There are thosein the Desert to-day who claim to trace the lineage oftheir horses back to those of Mohammed. These theytrain to endure hunger, fatigue and thirst to stand theDesert life. Some are said to be able to travel eightyleagues in twenty-four hours.”

There were modern incidents in Beautiful Bay’s lore—​talesof the Southern States—​so lately colonies—​toldhim by his famous father, Traveller, who was importedfrom England and owned by Colonel Tayloe of Virginia.

“The blood of a thoroughbred flows quicker on thecourse than on a hill-side farm,” said the old horse, andrelated a story of the meet at Annapolis, when he andColonel De Lancey went down from New York to visitThe Dulaney of Maryland.

Discussing the merits of the horses stood a group ofthe famous horsemen of the day: Tom Lee, of Virginia;Mason, of Gunstan Hall, and De Lancey, of New York—​whenThe Dulaney joined them.

“’Sdeath, De Lancey!” he cried, in his hearty voice,“and right glad am I to see you here. These spindlingbets of fifty or a hundred pounds please me not. I wantgold, man, gold, I say!” Laughing carelessly, he flickeda speck of dust from his coat sleeve with a white linenhandkerchief.

“Gold? Egad, so do I!” answered the rollicking DeLancey. “What say you to a peck of gold? Neitherdo I deal in quarters and halves.”

“Make it a struck bushel of Spanish dollars, and I willback my horse against yours or the field!” cried theSoutherner.

The bet made was perhaps the most sensational money-betever made on the Annapolis course.

Deafening cheers rent the air as The Dulaney’s horsefinished the one-mile circle a nose ahead.

Justin Morgan | Project Gutenberg (4)

From Linsley’s “Morgan Horses”

JUSTIN MORGAN.

“THOU SHALT BE TO MAN A SOURCE OF HAPPINESSAND WEALTH.”—MAHOMET

CHAPTER VII.

IN WHICH MISTRESS LLOYD, OF MARYLAND, GIVES TRUEHIS FIRST RIBBAND.

One sunny September morning, when the weather wasclear and fine and the trees were waving their crisp,gay-tinted leaves over the grass-bordered roadways leadingto the fair-grounds, the horses were blanketed andled towards the place of exhibition, for this was the greatopening of the Hartford Fair, and many had come fromas far as New York and Boston to attend it. Therewas much prancing and side-stepping among the horsesafter a fine breakfast to put them in a good humor.

True had been exhibited once at a small fair in Springfieldand knew a little of what was expected of him,but of course this was a much greater occasion and asensation of slight nervousness and anticipation held hisheart.

Some of the younger horses were ill-mannered; theybit at their grooms or snorted and showed their teethrudely, which astonished True, for he had been taughtto be polite always. Some of them grew very excitedand some knew they might change owners, and receiveprizes for this trait or that. It was a day long to beremembered by them all.

What a scene met their eyes when, at last, they werein sight of the Grounds! Early, as it was, there weremore men assembled together than True had ever seenand they made a point of all talking at once, which confusedthe horses no little; they shouted at the topsof their voices, too, as if everybody were stone deaf.

The women, however, stood quietly, and modestly atone side in little sheltered booths where they displayedin a most becoming manner their handiwork: quilts,with beautiful and appropriate names, and wonderfulpieces of hand-woven homespun and linen. Farther onTrue espied piles of carrots, squashes and other deliciousthings which would have made his mouth water hadhe not been so bewildered by the noises. Music soundedand set him dancing and showing his remarkable musclesto advantage.

Even Beautiful Bay, experienced as he must havebeen in such events, seemed to be under the influence ofthe lively atmosphere and curved his neck with spirit tothe admiration and respect of everyone who knew theold horse. True felt a little anxiety for the result whenBeautiful Bay was led before the Judges, but this wasquite unnecessary; he returned with a blue ribband onhis bridle and a very satisfied look in his eye.

Then the Three-year-olds were called.

True’s temples throbbed; there were many beautifulhorses there and, being modest, he had not guessed thathe was the most beautiful and meritorious of them all.

When they were led out some bared their teeth, kickedat each other, and misbehaved shockingly. The contrastbetween True’s breeding and theirs was verymarked. When the Judges approached some of themeven went so far as to whirl for a kick!

True in his turn, however, stepped out briskly andeasily, small, lean head high, heavy black mane and tailwaving lightly in the morning breeze. But, all suddenly,the stupid groom jerked his halter sharply.

Startled, the young horse flung himself backward.

“Now, you young rascal!” cried the lout, grandly, asif he were Mahommed himself, “None of your caperswith me!”

Not being accustomed to rudeness, True backed, indignantly,and dragged the boy along with him.

At this moment there was a rustle, like leaves in autumn,or the brush of wings, and the flying figure of amaid seemed poised beside the little horse, so light andairy was she.

All the odors of aromatic herbs and grasses of Arabia—​myrrh,frankincense and balsam, of which hismother had told him—​enveloped his imagination and delightedhis senses. He thrust his large tremulous nostrilsforward, hungry to inhale more deeply of this newcreature. Never had he scented her like before.

“Oh, please, Mr. Judge!” she cried, and as soon asshe spoke True recognized the dulcet tones of MistressLloyd, of Maryland. Thrilling, as she caught his rein,he calmed himself instantly. “Don’t let them jerk himso! Ah, my Beauty,” she continued, putting her cheekagainst his, “here is a piece of sugar for you!” She extendedthe rose-leaf palm, from which he had seen hisfather eat one day and on which was another bit ofmaple sugar. “See, he is so willing to be good, if youwill but let him!”

When he had lipped her hand all over very gently,to get the last crumb, True poked his small muzzleinto the hollow of her neck and listened to her voicemurmuring in his ear. All the soft breezes and bluesky of the universe were concentrated in the deliciousspell of her presence, for this young maiden was one ofthose rare human beings who possess a mysterious understandingof animals, especially horses, which givesa power and control over them—​almost miraculous.

True stepped carefully, lest his small well-shaped hoofsmight tread upon the marvellously tiny feet half hiddenbeneath the flowered petticoat. All the while her voice wassaying soft, delightful things in his listening ear.

When she finally gave up his rein and turned away,the young horse followed, drawn as by a magnet anddragged the groom with him, scarce seeming to feel theboy pulling at the halter.

A murmur of polite laughter made Mistress Lloydlook back.

Smiling sweetly, she turned and stroked True’s broadforehead with her magic hand, and, telling him softly,to “go back and be judged,” she reminded him he wasat a Fair.

Indeed he needed reminding, for so absorbed had hebeen in her loveliness that he had forgotten all else!

The groom then gave a gentler tug at the halter andTrue consented to be led before the Judges, who had notyet told the people he was the finest Three-year-old inNew England. “The Hartford Wits” and their friends,the Maryland Lloyds, watched the consultation of Judges,hoping the ribband would be given to “Figure.”

In a few moments one of the committee came andspoke a few words to Mistress Lloyd; she smiled withpleasure, and nodded her pretty head in assent.

In another moment True heard the sound as of leavesin an autumn forest, and there she was, beside him oncemore, a fillet of blue in her hand.

Daintily she reached the headstall of his halter andfirmly she tied it on—​all the while talking to him, oh,so sweetly:

“And so ’tis yours! I knew ’twould be, you beauty!You’re far lovelier than your father, even, and you mustalways be a good colt and make everybody love you asyou’ve made me!”

Somehow, True did not mind being called a “colt” byher, it seemed more like a caress than patronage; buthad the Coxcomb, standing by, done it he would havebeen tempted to take a whirl at him.

“Some day,” went on Mistress Lloyd, “my father willbuy you for me and I shall take you down to Maryland—​Iwant Tom Dulaney to see you!” True couldhear by the tones of her voice as she mentioned his namethat this Tom Dulaney must be a personage of consequence.“You are small, and some might say not leanenough to hunt, but you are the dearest animal I everwon the love of!” For ’twas ever the habit of this fairmaid to weave her spell over animals, and well awarewas she of their response!

Then, oh, miracle of delights! as she finished tyingthe strand she kissed his straight face with lips thatlooked and smelled like crimson clover blossoms wetwith dew.

This perfumed dream was broken by a disagreeablelaugh, and a well-bred but none the less offensive voicesaid:

“The brute will bite you, Mistress.”

It was the Coxcomb speaking.

“I am afraid of no horse living, Master Knickerbocker,”she gave reply, quietly; then looking straightat him, she finished, “horses are often truer than men.”

She turned quickly and joined her father.

CHAPTER VIII.

TRUE GOES TO FOUND HIS RACE.

Beautiful Bay boasted of having carried the Marquisde Lafayette to the great banquet the Hartford peoplegave him at the Bunch of Grapes Tavern, in 1784.The reference to this made the younger horse hope, asever, rather recklessly, that another war might be declaredwhich would give him such opportunities to distinguishhimself as his father had had.

Sometimes father and son stood beneath the Elm onMain street and Beautiful Bay told True of the meetingthere of Generals Washington, Hamilton and Knox,in 1780, when they discussed the Yorktown campaign.The ground under it was trodden hard, as if manyothers had stood to tell or listen to the story.

One day True heard the tale of the Charter Oak asthey passed it on their way for a lounge on SentinelHill; and he heard, too, the exciting times accompanyingthe burning of the State House, in 1783.

Often they passed a queer looking young man; headbent in thought, hands clasped behind his back, at whompeople pointed, saying with a shrug of understanding,as if to make allowances for the eccentricities of ascholar.

“There goes No-y Webster!”

Now and again the two horses went over to MathewAllyn’s mill where the stones turned corn into deliciousmeal; or they made trips under the saddle up RockyHill, where men were hanged from a gibbet over theprecipice if they had been wicked—​or if men said theyhad—​which came to the same thing in the end.

Certain days each week were called “Market Days,”and farmers came to Hartford to sell their produce.The Meeting House bell called them together and whenTrue was present they often stood near to admire himand invite him to visit their farms. These were veryprofitable experiences to True and his owner, for therewas always plenty of good food and bedding.

It was with no little regret, therefore, that True foundone day Master Morgan was making ready to leave, andhe must say good-bye to his father and friends in thatpleasant town.

Nevertheless, when they set out, and turned theirfaces northward, he stepped out with a stout heart, rememberinghis mother’s instruction:

“Duty that we cheerfully do,

Is always quickest through!”

The highway they took was the one they had travelledwhen on their way to Hartford, and True’s spirits rose,thinking he might soon see his dear mother and Caesar.He would have so much to tell them of his experiencesin the great world.

A feeling of keen content and happiness swept overhim as he cantered easily along the banks of the statelyConnecticut River, or stopped to graze on the rich abundantgrass bordering the roadway.

’Twas at turn of day he felt a sweet nearness to hisold home, and by a thousand familiar signs and senseshe knew they were approaching. Plucking up all his courageand enthusiasm, he increased his speed and, almostbreathless with joy, stopped at the familiar barn-doorand whinneyed twice in the old way.

There was no response.

His heart sank; a sudden anxiety seized him.

Finally Caesar appeared and purred a soft welcomeas he rubbed against his old friend’s leg. True madehurried enquiries as to his mother’s welfare, while MasterMorgan gave “halloo!” for the inmates of the house.

“Alas,” mewed the cat, sitting down to wash his face,“things have changed since you went away. Yourmother is sold into the South——”

“Into the South!” interrupted True, but Caesar sawnothing exciting in that, and continued, placidly:

—“and our master lies ill of the fever, our mistressever at his side and no one to notice me at all.The stables are lonely, even the rats and mice havemoved away for lack of food, for the garden and farmare grown up in weeds.” And he wiped his paw surreptitiouslyacross his eye, curled himself up on a beamand fell asleep.

The responsive tears filled True’s eyes, and he wouldhave roused the cat with other questions but at the momentMistress Whitman opened the kitchen door. Sheoffered Master Morgan friendly greeting, but when shecaught sight of True she ran quickly out and threw herarms about his neck. Her old pet was equally glad tosee her and thrust his muzzle into the folds of the whitekerchief about her neck and made little affectionatesounds of greeting in reply.

“Come, True, little pony,” she whispered, “he has almostgrieved himself to death at parting from you. Thevery sight of you will make him better.”

Without ado, she led the horse right up the two stonesteps and into the kitchen where once he and his motherhad stolen soup out of the pot which was even nowswinging from the crane. As he recalled the incidenthe thrust his wide nostrils forward, but, smiling sadly,Mistress Whitman drew him to the inner door. Hisshod hoofs made an unseemly stamping, and a feeblevoice from beyond called:

“Nay, wife, there must be something wrong!”

Mistress Whitman opened the door wide and let lightinto the darkened room.

“Instead, dear husband, ’tis very right,” she cried,cheerily, “for here is our precious colt come to visitwith you.”

True found himself in a small, bare room, standingbeside a cot, and, as his eyes grew accustomed to thedimness, he recognized his old master, wasted with illness,lying helpless before him, his cheeks flushed, hiseyes bright with fever. The affectionate little horsenosed among the quilts, trying to express his joy atseeing his old friend and at the same time his grief atfinding him so weak and ill.

“Wife,” called the sick man, presently, “wife, fetchme some maple sugar and do go into the barn and givethe colt all there is left of food there.”

“I will pay you well, Mistress,” said Master Morgan,from the doorway.

“Pay us, sir?” said the feeble voice from the cot, “payus, sir? For feeding True? Why, bless you, he is oneof my own family. I should as soon think of taking payfor food I might give my good wife, there. ’Twas onlymisfortune that led me to part with our pet. But youmean well, sir, and I bear you no ill-will.”

It was thus that True was loved by those who understoodhis nature.

When at last he was led to the stable he whinneyedtwice for Caesar, with leaping heart.

“Was the one from the South who purchased mymother,” he asked, “a peerless lily of a maid, with crow-blackhair and stars for eyes? Had she palms like thepetals of a wild-rose and did she smell like clover blossomsafter a sudden shower?”

But Caesar had not noticed, he said, as he sat on theedge of the doorsill, and began his inevitable face-washing.

“Had not noticed! Then indeed, it was not she,”thought True, impatient with the cat. Even a cat wouldhave noticed Mistress Lloyd.

He spent a lonely night and was relieved to set outearly in the morning for Randolph, Vermont, where JustinMorgan lived; the old home was not what it hadbeen and any change was better than the atmospherethat hung over all at the Whitman farm.

Besides, Justin Morgan was kind to him and theywere good friends enough, and no doubt Randolph wasas good a village as Springfield. He grew philosophicas they started off.

They galloped over fields and through vague roads,or walked under vast overhanging and dense forests,and in time they came in sight of the bold, heavily-timberedGreen Mountains—​“The Footstools of Allah,” hismother had called them. They gave the young horsea feeling of strength and confidence; he felt his musclesexpand at sight of their bold outlines and he had nofear of their difficulties. From the top of one he gazedat the view, entranced, rearing his fine bony head andbreathing deeply of the pure life-giving air.

According to his mother’s prophecy it would be in theshadow of these mountains that he, scion of a hundredfamous horses, would found the new race, and at firstsight of their high broken sky-line, he made a resolve tolive such an exemplary life that it would be a standardfor that race to come.

Master Morgan was town-clerk, school-teacher, andsinging master, and went daily from place to place withbooks in his saddle bags; it was this life True had cometo share. There was a comfortable stable but no stable-mates,and had they not been constantly on the go, Truemight have been lonely; he came to look for their tripswith much content and cantered along right willinglyfrom one place to another.

For a time he was hitched outside the schoolhousedoor, but when Master Morgan found he would comeat his whistle, he let the little horse graze at will—​thebridle fastened securely to the saddle—​and to make theacquaintance of other horses during school hours. Heknew well True would not abuse this privilege and wandertoo far.

Thus the first weeks of his stay at Randolph werepassed.

As winter set in his sensitive ears detected, high inthe air, a snapping of the cold which disturbed him nolittle, owing to his fear of storms. One night, when thissound was more audible than it had ever been, he pawedand stamped so restlessly that Justin Morgan came tofind out what the matter was.

As the stable door opened there flashed through it aflood of crimson light. In the North great shafts piercedfrom the horizon high into the centre of the heavens.Poor True gave a moan of fright and crowded into acorner of his stall—​it looked so like that awful fire inwhich old Piebald Ceph had lost his life.

Master Morgan closed the door hurriedly.

“Why, you poor horse,” he said, kindly, “’tis nothingbut the Northern lights. Steady, now, steady.”

’Twas not so much the words as the tone and thegentle pats on his shoulder that pacified True. He feltat once that his master would take care of him andcalmed himself like a sensible animal.

When he was quieted Justin Morgan climbed into thehay-loft and down a ladder on the other side of thebarn rather than let the light shine through the dooragain, which was very considerate and no doubt Truewas proportionately grateful.

Those were wild, unsettled days in Vermont, and talesof Indians pillaging and burning were so fresh in theminds of the pioneers that a certain feeling of insecurityremained, ready to be roused into action any minute.The forests were dense and dark, the farms scatteredand lonely and the life primitive. Neighbors dependedsolely upon each other for assistance in times of troubleor danger.

Dame Margery Griswold—​daughter of a friendly Indianchief, and wife of a white settler—​was one of thefine and noble characters of Randolph. Wise in theways of medicines and herb-teas, she was constantlycalled upon to administer to the sick, and never failed torespond, rain or shine, snow or sleet.

One cold, blustery night there came a need for her togo across the mountain to see a child lying sick of afever.

When she called upon her old white mare she was metby a flat refusal; the poor old nag was crippled withrheumatism and could not rise from her stable floorwhere she lay on her bedding of dried leaves.

Dame Margery therefore consulted Uncle Peter Edson,to whom all turned for advice, he being the oldestman in the town and a Deacon in the church.

Not long after this Master Morgan was awakened bya smart rapping on his door.

“Who’s there?” he called, sleepily.

“Wake, Friend Justin,” cried Uncle Peter, for ’twashe. “Dame Margery would borrow your horse Figurefor the night. She is sent for to doctor a sick child.”

“’Tis a raw night for the dame, no less my horse,”answered Morgan, lifting the latch and inviting the oldman in out of the cold. The ever-smouldering back-logkept the fire ready to blow into a blaze any time andJustin Morgan, not disturbing his family, set about fanningit with a large, turkey-tail fan. “I do not wish tosend my horse out on such a night. We’ve but just gotin ourselves and are fagged,” he added.

The fire blazed and was soon roaring up the chimneyas the lightwood caught and the pine-knots flamed; thenMaster Morgan straightened himself.

“By the Constitution of these United States,” cried theold man, “’tis not a time to think of brute-beasts. Itell you a human lies ill and needs the Dame. Come,come, have done, and let me fetch the horse from thestable!”

But Master Morgan still hesitated, as he hung theturkey-tail back in place beside the high mantel.

“Come, I say,” thundered the old man, whom everyoneobeyed, “get the horse out, sir, or ’twill be the worsefor you when the neighbors find you consider your animalbefore a human being.”

Such threats and language could not be withstood, andMaster Morgan, ever willing to be of service to a fellowbeing, and only reluctant on account of the tiredhorse, took his lanthorn from the mantel-shelf and wentout.

As soon as True left the protection of his stable hefelt a storm brewing, not so far away either; he hoped itwould not break before his return, yet not knowingwhere he was going.

Uncle Peter rode him over to Dame Margery’s, who,when she came out, was so bundled up in bearskins thathad she not spoken at once True might have been startled.Throwing her bags across the saddle and biddingUncle Peter a cheery good-night she set out on her errand.

It was a cruel night, clouds large and low swept overthe moon’s face and piled themselves up along the horizonlike banks of snow. Dame Margery spoke soothinglyand blithely to the horse which partly reconciled him tothe dire cold.

When they arrived at their destination Margery wentinto the hut and a young man came out to throw a fursquare over True’s shivering back and lead him out ofthe wind.

Hours passed. Inside the hut a child lay on a pallet onthe floor; Margery knelt beside it. Finally she withdrewher arm from beneath the little head very gently androse to her full, lean height. The white-faced, dry-eyedmother stood near—​undemonstrative as Vermont womenare apt to be but none the less grateful for all their stillness.

She followed Margery to the door as the latter steppedout into the bitter night.

“Looks like a storm,” Margery said, over her shoulder.“See that you don’t forget the pleurisy-root tea—​andhave it piping hot!”

“Best tarry the night,” urged the woman, hospitably,from the door where she stood, screening a sputteringdip from the wind with her hand.

“Nay, nay, yet I give you thanks,” answered Margery,gaily. “I am not afraid of storms; I was born inone and brought up in a wigwam!”

She pulled the covering from True’s back andmounted.

They started just as a veil of blinding snow fell fullin their faces—​and it fell so fast the ground was soonwhite.

The vicious wind, like an unchained demon, caughtTrue’s thick black mane and blew it upwards, giving hima spasm of cold on his neck. He shivered. A moanswept through the hemlock boughs, they bent before thewind. Margery moistened the end of her finger and heldit up, a thin skin of ice formed on its front.

Beaten by the wind and blinded by the snow his oldstorm-terror came over the horse, he wheeled and let thebiting blast beat against his haunches—​head down andheavy black tail against the on coming snow and numbingcold.

Once or twice he sniffed, as if in consultation with hisrider, but as she offered no advice, he sprang to theshelter of a clump of firs and the harsh wind whistledfiercely on.

Margery slid from the saddle and with stiff but defthands she caught True’s foot and threw him, Indian-fashion,to the ground. Then she broke huge branchesof hemlock and piled them up as a brake against thesnow, crouching close to the willing body of the nowmotionless horse. The wind, making a grating sound,pressed hard against their brake but it did not give, andtrembling with cold the two waited for the storm to pass.The snow fell and fell; like knives the icy splinterslashed their eyelids and swirled on, tossing wave uponwave of snow on their protection of boughs and moundingit almost over them.

A large branch, heavy with the weight of ice andsleet, snapped from a tree near by and crashed to theground, but they did not stir.

Angry mutterings came to them through the evergreenbranches and shrieked off over the mountains like wind-tossedspirits. Through the long hours they made hardlya movement.

At last the darkness was over and from out the placewhere it went the sun came, flashing long rays of goldon trees draped with icicles and a world carpeted withsnow, sparkling and gleaming, dazzling their eyes withits glitter.

A strange calm had fallen on the wind-swept scenewhen they rose and shook themselves, stiff with cold, toset off homeward. Over all the glistening landscapehung a deep-blue sky, calm, serene.

It was his hardihood that saved the little horse, butgood Dame Margery Griswold caught her death thatnight while the child she braved the storm to save livedon to bless her name.

CHAPTER IX.

TRUE’S FIRST HARD WORK, AND HOW HE ACCOMPLISHED IT.

Upon a hill at Randolph Centre perched a little storewhere the farmers gathered in cold weather to warmthemselves with Medford rum, a common enough drinkin those days, to express lavish opinions as to politicalaffairs of the young nation, so lately separated from herMother Country, or to discuss more intimate local business.

Master Morgan drank little, being more inclined toquiet study than sociability, but his way led past thestore and he often stopped to hear the news. Therewere no newspapers in those days, and all news came byletter or word-of-mouth of the stage-drivers.

Whilst waiting outside for his owner True madepleasant acquaintances among the horses who also stoodawaiting their riders.

A grey mare, very old, very wise and very strong inher convictions, whom he often met, told him manymane-raising stories of Indian days—​so recently passedthrough—​and the more his wide-set ears pointed andthe more his dark prominent eyes grew eager the betterthe old pioneer liked it.

One of her strange tales was how she discovered hermaster, Experience Davis, after he returned from histwo years’ captivity with the Indians.

One day, she told True, as she stood quietly nearDavis’ hut, nibbling lazily among the stumps and stonesof the new-cleared field to get the last blades of grass andweeds, she heard a frightful sound approaching.

She thrilled with horror!

Davis, hoeing, hard by, also heard and dashed franticallyinto his hut, closing the door and barring it securely—​rightwell did everyone of the time know whatthose dreadful war-whoops and blood-curdling yells foreboded!

Old Grey threw back her head and sniffed for a betterscent with red, comprehending nostrils. Then, as aband of painted, half-naked savages, brandishing theirtomahawks, rushed from the forest, she snorted and fled—​hersparse tail high in the air, her heart stricken withfear.

On an eminence afar, she stopped and saw thewretches burst open the hut-door and drag her strugglingmaster out. Binding him tightly, and securing everythingthat might be of use, they set fire to the hut anddisappeared into the forest with war-whoops, takingDavis with them.

Old Grey waited sadly on the river-bank until hungerand loneliness induced her to return. Alas, the ruin thatmet her eyes!

A neighbor who had escaped the massacre of that dayfound her, wandering about in despair, and, thinkinghis friend Experience must have been burned in hishut or scalped, took the old mare to share such life asthe pioneers of that day had to endure. When he wentto live in Hanover, Old Grey went along, too.

One fine sunny day two years later, as she stoodhitched in the old Meeting House yard, she felt a thrill,her heart began suddenly to beat faster, she lookedaround, disturbed in spirit for some strange, unknownreason.

At last she saw a man crossing the yard, and a momentlater recognized her old friend Experience Davis!

Fearing he would pass without seeing her, she whinneyed,once-and-a-half, as had been her wont.

Davis stopped, glanced about, mystified, and was goingon when she repeated her greeting, anxiously. At thathe looked at her, sharply and curiously. Involuntarilyhe answered, with his old familiar whistle.

At sound of this Old Grey was so overcome with joythat she snapped her hitch-rein with a quick jerk, andtrotted right up to him!

He was so pale and thin from long captivity that shewould hardly have known him by sight, alone; it washis scent that convinced her infallible nostrils that he wasreally her once ruddy and strong master.

Davis took her back to the old place where he hadjust rebuilt the hut and stable and there they had livedhappily together ever since.

On the Highway from Boston to Canada, stood Benedict’sTavern, and here True often met distinguishedhorses on their way to or from the race course on ThePlains of Abraham, in Quebec, where men sent theirhorses from great distances to test their speed againstother horses. There were then, in the United States ofAmerica, no race-courses.

It was at this stage-house, no doubt, that in True wasfirst born that racing spirit, of which nothing came fora long time.

In the late winter of his first year at Randolph, MasterMorgan fell ill with lung-trouble; he had to giveup his teaching and singing and, finding he could notafford to keep a horse, hired True out to one RobertEvans, a farmer and hunter, solid as granite, and kindly,to clear fifteen acres of heavy-timbered land.

For this task Evans agreed to pay Morgan fifteen dollarsand to feed the horse.

Evans, big chinned and grey eyed, was a lean andsinewy frontiersman, poor and hard-working, with alarge family, and True knew, intuitively, that his daysof pleasant jaunting about the country under the saddlewere over. However, with that indomitable courage,which characterizes his descendants to this day, he setabout the difficult task and by the first of June it wasfinished, without help from any other horse.[6]

He never regretted this work for it developed hischest and leg muscles early in life, muscles, the like ofwhich had not been known before in a horse of hissize.

The setting of many of True’s most interesting experiencesand exciting adventures at this period of his life,was Chase’s Mill. This busy spot was situated on thewooded bank of the White River, as pretty a bit ofVermont as one could find in a day’s journey. Theriver sparkled and laughed between green banks andleaped merrily over the mill-wheel; spruce and firs thrustthirsty feet deep down in the water and reared tall headshigh into the upper air to catch the sun’s rays; perfumeof wild flowers loaded the breeze; birds sang all day,and white stemmed birches guarded the nearby forestlike soldiers standing in a row, straight and firm.

Miller Chase plied an honest trade in Medford rumwhile the farmers waited for the wobbly stones to grindtheir corn or the saws to saw their logs. Horses andoxen grazed at hand, taking the opportunity to enjoythe delicious grass growing so abundantly in the rich,fertile valley.

One day True chanced to remark upon this grass tohis friend Old Grey.

“Know you not,” she asked, astonished at his youthfulignorance, “how it came to be broadcast here?”

“Not I!” whinneyed True. Suffice it that he was enjoyingits satisfying plentifulness to the fullest after hishard day in the plow.

And she told him.

After the massacre, in which her master, ExperienceDavis, had been captured, in plundering Zadock Steele’shut, before burning it, an Indian found a sack of valuablegrass-seed. He put it over his shoulder and startedoff down the valley.

After a while he noticed, vaguely, that his load, unlikethe usual manner of loads, became lighter thefarther he travelled, but he stupidly did not think toglance over his shoulder at his burden.

When he reached Dog River there was not a grass-seedleft in the sack!

Through a tiny hole in the bag he had, unintentionally,sown this wonderful seed all the way from Randolph,and for years it grew up, unmowed, uneaten, andalmost man-high, to make the White River Valley famous,and supply grass and hay for farmers and horses.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] Morgan Horses, Linsley, page 136.

CHAPTER X.

IN WHICH “TRUE” BECOMES “JUSTIN MORGAN.”

Once or twice a week it was the custom among thefarmers, waiting at Chase’s Mill, to pass the time testingtheir strength or that of their horses. It was healthfulsport and kept them and their beasts in trim.

Many were the jugs of Medford rum consumed onthese occasions, and anyone having a horse to try, or anew test of strength for the men, was welcomed.

Running their horses short distances for small stakescame to be very popular.[7] A course of eighty rods wasmeasured, starting at the mill and extending along thehighway; a line was drawn across the road, called a“scratch,” the horses were ranged in a row, and at thedrop of a hat away they went, cheered by the crowd.

It so happened that Evans and True, who never finishedtheir work until dusk, were rarely at these tests.Evans, himself, was too tired to join in the sports, butTrue often thought he would like to try his strengthagainst the larger, heavier horses.

One day, coming along the River Road to the mill,his heavy farm-harness and tug-chains still dangling onTrue, they passed Master Justin Morgan—​he stood undera maple tree and was lilting an old French song learnedfrom the Canadian lumbermen, called “A la Claire Fontaine.”True and Evans paused to listen. Everyoneliked Master Morgan for his sweet voice and gentlemanners.

When the song was finished Evans gave the singerneighborly greeting and strode on to the mill, True followinghim, more like a dog than a horse.

The sun was gone and the evening shadows were beginningto fall, but there were still lingering along thehorizon long streaks of crimson and gold that tingedthe river with color.

In evident discussion, near a log at the mill, stood agroup of farmers.

Evans and True approached.

Nathan Nye, friendly and jovial, whittling a birchstick, looked up as Evans said: “How be ye all?”

“Why not give Bob’s horse a show?” he asked, atwinkle in his keen blue eyes, a smile brightening hisgenial face.

Horses and oxen were hitched to the limbs of treesor grazed near at hand, quite without interest in whateverwas taking place. Sledges and wagons rested theirshafts on the ground, seeming to wait patiently.

“Is it a pulling bee?” asked Evans, leaning againstTrue’s side.

“Yaas, but I guess it’s abeout over, now,” drawled alank youth, coming out of the mill with a sack of mealon his shoulder.

“Anybody but you in a hurry to be going home-along?”questioned Nye, crushingly.

The youth did not answer, but went on to his sledge.

“There’s a jug of Medford rum in the store for theowner of the horse that can get that there log on my runwaythis evening,” explained Miller Chase to Evans.

“Now I want to know!” exclaimed Evans, carelessly,“Why didn’t you say so before? You seem to be makingquite a chore of a very simple thing; I’ll just havemy little horse do it for you in a jiffy!”

A shout of derisive laughter greeted his remark.

“Now do tell!” cried Hiram Sage, sarcastically.

“That pony pull a log my Jim refused?” scoffed another.

“My ‘pony,’ as you call him,” laughed Evans, good-naturedly,“has never refused me yet.” He placed hisarm over True’s neck; the horse rattled his chains musically,and reached for a low-handing bough.

“Work is play for this animal,” Evans went on.“We’ve been in the logging-field all day, but that don’tmake a mite o’ difference to the Morgan horse. Come,show us your log!”

True shook himself again and went on chewing leaves.

“Why, that beast’s naught but a colt!” said Jim’sowner, scornfully.

“Colt or no, he’s the finest bit o’ horse-flesh this sideof The Plains of Abraham!” Evans contended, hotly.“Give him his head and he goes like a shot and doesn’tpull an ounce, and as for drawing a load—​when thishorse starts, something’s got to come! That is,” headded with a laugh, “as long as the tugs last!”

“Well, stop your bragging,” said the sarcastic Hiram;“actions speak louder than words. Hitch him up thatthere ‘something’ and let us see it ‘come’.”

Miller Chase stepped forward, hospitably.

“First come in, men, and fix up your bets over a mug,”he said.

They went inside the shop, all talking at once, andleft True nibbling among the grasses and weeds. Whenthey had disappeared he glanced at the log which theother horses had “refused”—​horses much larger andheavier than he. The opportunity he had hoped forhad come!

“But can I do it?” he asked himself.

The answer was, he could, and would.

He was spurred to the greatest effort of his life bythe taunt that he was a “pony.” At any rate he was overfourteen hands and weighed nine hundred and fiftypounds!

“As I understand it,” Evans was saying, as the mencame out of the shop, “the agreement is that my horsehas got to pull that big log ten rods onto the logway,in three pulls, or I lose?”

“That’s the idea, exactly,” assented Miller Chase.

Evans took hold of True’s bridle confidently, and ledhim to the enormous log, where he fastened the tugsproperly. Then he stepped one side and looked theyoung horse straight in the eye.

True returned his look—​they might almost have beensaid to have exchanged a wink.

At this thought, Evans shouted with laughter.

“Gentlemen,” he said, when he could speak seriously,“I am ashamed to ask my horse to pull a little weightlike that on a test—​couldn’t two or three of you get onand ride?”

Then Evans was sure he saw a twinkle in True’s eye.

A loud laugh greeted the proposal.

“But, man, that there’s a dead lift!” expostulated themiller.

“Well, mine’s a live horse,” Evans cried, with a grin.“Get on there! Justin Morgan’s waitin’ for to takeyou to drive!”

From this day the young horse was called Justin Morgan’s.It was an easy transition to drop the possessive“s,” after a while, and call him “Justin Morgan.”

With much hilarity three men climbed up on the log.

By this time darkness had fallen and Master Chaseran to get his lanthorn, swinging it back and forth, as hereturned.

“Mind you don’t fall off,” Evans warned the men.“‘Something’ is about to ‘come’.”

And “something” did!

Justin Morgan’s horse gathered himself together, almostcrouching, and waited for the word to start. Whenit was given, his chest-muscles strained, his wide nostrilswere scarlet and dilated, and this scion of Arabia’s proudbreed moved off as if inspired by Allah himself for analmost miraculous feat.

The bystanders, craning their necks to see, ran alongside;the men, perched on the log, fell off as it rockedfrom side to side, and then the young horse paused forbreath—​or to recover his strength.

Utter silence was over all. There was no jeering now.

The second pull landed the log on the logway, and theamazed men broke into the wildest cheers ever heard atChase’s Mill.[8]

FOOTNOTES:

[7] Morgan Horses, Linsley, page 133.

[8] Morgan Horses, Linsley, page 137.

CHAPTER XI.

MORGAN TRIES CONCLUSIONS WITH THE COXCOMB ANDHIS FRIENDS.

After his triumph at Chase’s Mill, the Morgan andEvans often stopped there on their way home from work.

A welcome more cordial than usual greeted them onesweet and tranquil afternoon. Cowbells tinkled in thedistance, coming home along the River Road for themilking hour, and the chains of Morgan’s harness jangledan echo from his sides. The leather parts of this harnesswere mended here and there with bits of white string,and his usually glossy, short hair was rough and lackedcare. He was not pretty, but always bold and fearlessin his style of movement.

As was his custom, Nathan Nye sat whittling his birchstick into useless shavings.

“Let the Morgan see if it’s in him to do it!” he criedto Evans.

“What’s the game to-day?” asked Evans, cheerfully.

With a backward nod and a frown Nye indicated threestrangers standing in the doorway of the little shop.

“Travellers from over to Benedict’s,” he explained,in an undertone. “They heard about our horse andhave come to try out against him. I’ve got a sneakingidea that we can take the starch out o’ their biled shirtsfor ’em!” He shut his knife with a determined clickand rose. “They claim size is necessary for speed andendurance,” he went on; “they are just from The Plainsof Abraham; on their way back to New York; came yesterdayand hearing at the stage-house that we had somethingof a horse in these parts staid over to-day tosatisfy their curiosity.”

“We’ll satisfy it!” laughed Evans, confidently.

Three strange horses stood hitched near by, and Evanswent to take a look at them, as if casually. The Morganfollowed, as a faithful dog might, extending hisnostrils as he caught sight of a cloak thrown over oneof the saddles. He caught the scent and blew his breathon it in a disgusted way. He had recognized the odorof the Coxcomb, Master Knickerbocker!

Nye had also followed Evans.

“I’d just like to show these New York dandies thesort of horses we can raise in Vermont,” he said, apparentlyoblivious of the fact that the best and first partof True’s raising had been done in Massachusetts. “Evenif we can’t afford to use all that ody cologne, and wearfrills on our shirt fronts. They say these two horseswere bred on the Winooski at the Ethan Allen farm, butthis one”—​he indicated the horses as he spoke—​“is fromdown New York way.”

Evans walked around and looked at them critically.

“Good horses, all of them,” he remarked, with appreciation,“and fresh.”

“Rested all night at the Inn,” Nye corroborated, resentfully.

The Morgan was working himself up over the scentof the cloak—​any test for him against the horse on whosesaddle it lay was as good as won already. He had anintuition that Mistress Lloyd would like him to defeatthe Coxcomb, whose horse was a fretful, vicious animal—​handsomeenough, it was true, and with many racesto his credit—​but he was too full of conceit and self-confidenceto please Morgan.

The Ethan Allen horses were quieter and gave theimpression of reserve power. All three were stylishand well cared for, while Morgan was ungroomed andneglected; there were a few burrs in his heavy blacktail, too, which seemed to strike the New Yorkers asextremely amusing. The Morgan, himself, however,had never seen anything very comical about a merecockle-burr, and was nettled at their foolish remarks andjeers.

“Yes,” repeated Nye, “fresh as flowers, and fed to thetop-notch. Those men have a fine plan to take us downa peg or two.”

“Is it a clean, fair race, think you?” asked Evans,under his breath.

“It’s no clean and no fair race,” Nye gave reply, indignantly,and in the same low, resentful tone he added,[9]“they want our horse to run three separate races, oneafter the other, and him all tuckered out with a day’splowing.”

“It ain’t fair,” agreed Evans, vehemently. “My horseain’t only tired, but my saddle and bridle, that I leftover here t’other day, ain’t light and easy like theirs.It ain’t reasonable…. Not but what Morgan cando it,” he added, quickly, “but it’s hard on him.”

“Of course he can do it,” assented Nye, confidently.“They say we’ve got to show ’em—​or shut up our braggingover to Benedict’s—​with the word being passed onfrom North to South, as never was!”

“All right,” said Evans. “We’ll show ’em. As longas Morgan’s alive we ain’t got no cause to shut up bragging.”

“Every man to ride his own horse,” Nye further explained.

“My legs are a leetle mite too long to be pretty,”laughed Evans. “But if Morgan can stand it, I can.”

True heard all this as he stood cropping grass near athand. When they ceased speaking he came and rubbedhis nose on Evans’ shoulder reassuringly, as he often didin his affectionate, demonstrative way.

At this moment the strangers joined them, and Truerecognized the Coxcomb as he swaggered forward, tappinghis tall boots with a beautiful riding whip. Spursgleamed on his heels and his insolent manner was instrong contrast to the simple bearing of the straightforwardfarmer’s.

At a glance, Morgan had seen it would be no greatfeat to beat the Ethan Allen horses, but he also sawwith the same quick glance that the New York horsewas to be reckoned with; he was evidently accustomedto successes on the course.

When the races were arranged, Evans removed thedangling plow-harness from True’s back. At sight ofhim without it the strangers seemed to be more amusedthan ever. Their contemptuous remarks affronted Evans.

“Fix up your bets,” he called out a moment later, impatiently,seeing how uncomfortable True was with hiscumbersome saddle and coarse bit. “I want to get home-along.”

He spoke as if he were so sure of winning that it wasbut the question of a moment or so.

His tone irritated the Coxcomb. He came forward.

“Odd brute that,” he sneered, “to put against horsesthat have won on The Plains of Abraham. But I supposethe fun of the races will make up to you for yourlosses. Why, this is nothing but a Canadian scrub!”

True shook himself in disgust. To be called a stridingCanadian. A horse who travels with purposed exertion,while he glided over the ground with scarce aneffort. A Canadian scrub, indeed, a horse whose thicknostrils speak of low birth and whose flat sides and thickhair seem made for much cold and beating; and he, withthe blood of the South in his veins!

It was too much for Evans.

“This is no Canadian,” he contradicted, shortly; “thishorse is a Thoroughbred.”

The Coxcomb laughed derisively, and flicked his boot.

“None the less, the brute would answer to the order‘Marches donc!’… Not so, my friend?” Hestruck True on the side with his keen whip, making himspring forward.

“What said I?” he scoffed with a shrug. “The horsedoes not lie about his pedigree.”

Ignoring the insulting inference, Evans quieted Morganwith a caress and cried:

“For shame, sir! Would you have me strike yourhorse thus?”

But Master Knickerbocker had moved away, laughinginsolently.

The course was measured, the scratch drawn andNathan Nye stood ready to drop the hat. Several of themen went to the finish-line to witness and testify to theresult of the three races.

The course faced the east, so that the eyes of thehorses and their riders were turned from the sunset glowwhich was then illumining the world. The road wassmooth, and a recent rain had laid the dust; the conditionswere better than usual. The pungent odor of new-sawnlumber filled the air and the chirping of birds fromthe nearby forest made sweet music.

One of the Ethan Allen horses walked briskly forwardunder his rider, while the Morgan joined him in thefriendly way which was his natural manner towards allanimals. They waited pleasantly, yet spiritedly, for thedrop of the hat.

When the signal was given they ran neck and neckfor a short distance—​then with a sudden and unexpectedspurt the Morgan dashed in a length ahead.

His friends cheered Morgan lustily; the other factionwere too astonished to other than gasp slightly, andwere silent. Evans himself was expressionless—​if anything,he, as well as Morgan, looked a little bored at theeasy victory, and cantered back to the starting point forthe next race with a sort of indifference.

The second was twin to the first. Morgan seemedjust waking up, as he sprang forward perfunctorily atthe finish, winning with ease. He moved as if he knewnot fatigue, even after the hard day’s work. It was theDesert training of his ancestors within him, their marvellousstaying qualities.

When they returned the second time the Coxcomb waswaiting, his restive horse trembling in anticipation of avictory.

One or two false starts, and they were off.

The Morgan was away toward the goal like an arrowfrom an Indian’s bow—​his small extended muzzle anddeep wide chest seemed to cut the air. In the shortlength of the course he thought of Flying Childers winninghis historic race against the runner Fox, aboutseventy-five years before, of which his father told him.Perhaps this memory and the strain of this great ancestorawakened possibilities within him—​the road ranpast, his small, well shaped black feet spurned the earth,and before he knew it he was at the finish almost a lengthahead of the horse who had won so many races on ThePlains of Abraham.

The chagrin of his antagonist’s rider was not lessenedby the laughs and cheers of the farmers, as they clusteredabout Morgan and patted his round, deep body andoblique shoulders.

The Coxcomb took his defeat ungracefully and havingsettled his bets rode impatiently away with his friends.

FOOTNOTES:

[9] Morgan Horses, Linsley, page 137.

CHAPTER XII.

OLD GREY TELLS PIONEER TALES.

Many events similar to the one related in the lastchapter spread the Morgan’s fame throughout the Valley,and when Evans finished his clearing Justin Morgan oncemore took possession of the horse, for his health wassufficiently restored to take up school-teaching again.

The change from hard farm-work was very agreeableto True, and they cantered from place to place rightgaily, albeit the horse missed the sweet singing of MasterMorgan, who coughed now incessantly, and oftenhad to dismount and rest in the shade of an oak on theroadside.

He was scarce forty years old, but seemed much moreon account of his grievous malady.

Regularly they went to Royalton, some ten miles tothe southward, and True grazed about until school letout. Through the window he sometimes saw the gentle,delicate face of the teacher at his desk, his Continentalcoat slightly open at the throat, showing a bit of freshwhite linen, his queue, in the fashion of the day, tiedwith a stiff bow of black ribband.

He was a master of whom any horse might have beenproud.

One day, while waiting for his owner, True wanderedinto the woods to escape the flies and dust of the highway,and there he met his friend, Old Grey, who toldhim how the Indians had burned Royalton in 1780; andamong the anecdotes relating to this time there was onewhich amused the young horse no little.

It ran as follows:

For some unaccountable reason the Indians had failedto burn the hut of one Jones, who had a wife knownfar and wide as a scold and a shrew. To get a day’srest from her abuse, poor Jones oft-times had to gohunting or trapping, and when he saw an especially badtantrum coming he would snatch his gun from themantel-shelf and, calling his dog, rush forth into theforest, a storm of reviling in his wake. Sometimes heremained away for days.

Nobody ever remembered having seen Jones smile.

One day, his wife’s temper and tongue being worsethan usual, he found it expedient to go hunting, andstayed away over night. There are times when a silentdog is sweet company and the peaceful forest a havenof refuge.

On the second afternoon, thinking it might be safe toreturn, Jones approached his home cautiously. Strangersounds than usual greeted his listening ear.

He paused, alert and intent, silencing his intelligentdog with a gesture. Creeping stealthily forward underthe shadow of the trees, he beheld a small band ofIndians in the act of breaking open his hut-door. Hewaited tensely, to see them drag his wife out and scalpher.

Instead, from inside came her familiar voice raised invituperation and upbraiding. Jones could scarcely believehis ears, and for the first time since his marriagehe grinned.

“This time those red imps have met their match,” hemurmured to his dog with an audible chuckle.

Hardly had he spoken when out came half a dozenIndians dragging the shrew between them. Not forone moment, however, did she cease her abuse, terrifiedthough she surely must have been.

Jones, standing at the edge of the forest, watched—​fearfullyat first, then with curious interest. Finally hesat down on the ground and gave way to uncontrollablemirth.

The Indians had paused on the river bank in consultation.

Suddenly, without warning apparently, two of themgathered the scold in their arms and sprang into thechill water. The others stood on the bank and whoopedmad encouragement, fiendishly, as only Indians can.

Mistress Jones’ green homespun petticoat filled quicklywith air and swelled around her like an enormous squash,out of which her scarlet face glowed furiously.

The savages on the bank yelled and danced. Thosein the water ducked their victim up and down, howlingwith glee, cracking her over the head as she rose.

“And there be some who say an Indian can’t see ajoke,” spluttered Jones, under his breath, holding hissides. The dog looked at his master with suspicion—​hethought the man was choking.

But Jones soon saw that the savages merely meant todiscipline his wife and give her a bath. An interruptionfrom him might disturb these laudable intentions, so heremained quietly in the background.

When they had finished to their entire satisfactionthey lifted the woman out of the river and flung her,gasping and shivering, among the tree-roots on the bank.She looked like a huge wet log. Yelling, they swam theriver and disappeared in the dense woods beyond.

Trembling, Jones drew near—​his mirth turned toseemly gravity; but he found a very subdued person.Cautiously Mistress Jones opened her eyes, one at atime, first peering carefully between the lids to see ifthe approaching footsteps were those of her tormentersreturning.

When she saw her husband she groaned feebly.

“Have they gone?” she whispered.

“Yes,” replied Jones, with becoming seriousness.

Mistress Jones rose heavily, and squeezed the waterfrom her skirts, shaking, humble and sobered.

“It served me right, husband dear,” she wailed at last.“I have ever been what those savages called me, ‘a dirtyblouze of a thing,’ but from now on I am a changedwoman and will be a better wife to you. The Indianssaid they would teach me a lesson—​and they have!”

CHAPTER XIII.

THE MORGAN GOES TO MONTPELIER TO LIVE.

Sometimes Justin Morgan rode his horse to Willistonto visit his friend, the Hon. Lemuel Bottom, who wasa lover of good horses; sometimes they went to Hinesburgh,a short distance from Burlington. They wereconstantly on the go from one town to another, meetingnew people and horses and having fresh experiences.

Hinesburgh was a quiet little village, and, althoughthere were two saw-mills, they did not have “bees” asthey did at Randolph; the scenery was beautiful, and thebedding so good that Morgan enjoyed his trips in spiteof the lack of excitement which he had grown to love atChase’s Mill.

His first military experience was when he took hisplace under an empty saddle in the procession that conductedthe body of Col. Israel Converse to his grave.Colonel Converse had been a brave soldier and greatlybeloved by his townspeople; over his open grave Morganheard for the first time a military salute and smelled theacrid odor of gunpowder. For a long time he wasthrilled by the memory.

As time increased Master Morgan’s health declinedrapidly; in 1795-96 he grew too weak to work, and soldhis horse to one William Rice, of Woodstock, who inturn sold him to Jonathan Shepard, a sturdy blacksmithliving in the little town of Montpelier.

Shepard was also landlord of the Farmer’s Inn, whichstood within a doughnut’s toss of his forge. He wasan energetic, thrifty man, and Colonel Davis engaged himto do some clearing on his farm, seeing that he now hada good strong young horse. Thus Morgan once morebecame a farm-horse, but as Shepard was well to do andkind, he fared well in his new home.

His dinner in a pail, and oats in a sack for the Morgan,Shepard would go out for a day’s plowing or clearingthe while Mistress Shepard remained at home to servecustomers at the Inn.

A “halloo” from the forge would make the blacksmithhurry back to aid a passing traveller whose horse hadcast a shoe or whose wagon or “shay” needed mending.He would leave the Morgan in the care of MaximusFabius Davis, the son of Colonel Davis, who—​as boyswent, in Morgan’s estimation—​was pleasant enough.Morgan was ever fond of men and women, alreadygrown, but the stage of childhood, required todevelop them into such, did not seem to interest him.

Now and again Maxy would ride him home in theevening, and if there chanced to be a horse at the forgeanxious for a test, there would be a race or some trialat pulling. Tales of his speed and strength spread formiles around, and all who called at the Inn or the forgewere anxious to see him. But they always said afterwardit was a shame to turn such a fine animal into amere farm-horse. Shepard had his answer ready, thathe “was but a farmer himself, and needed a good plow-horse—​nota racer eating its head off in his stable.”

Through honesty and that thrift for which the Vermonteris famous Shepard soon acquired considerablewealth, and wanting a larger place he exchanged theMorgan, his smithy, and the Farmers’ Inn for the largefarm on Dog River, belonging to James Hawkins. Thus,Morgan changed owners, but not homes, for Hawkinscame to Montpelier to live. The horse was glad of this,for he liked the musical ring of the hammer on the anviland the glare of the forge as the handle of the bellowswas raised and lowered.

Montpelier, organized in 1793, was a village of littleconsequence, but one of its citizens was a man of parts,staunch and true, and destined to rise to the high positionof Secretary of State. His name was David Wing,Jr., and he often borrowed the Morgan from Hawkinsfor as much as a week at a time. Under the comfortablesaddle of Master Wing, Morgan first saw the beautifulWinooski, with its sweep of eddies and currents, itsfoaming rapids and singing falls. David loved natureand good scenery as much as Morgan and their tripswere sweet and pleasant through lovely, fertile valleysand across densely wooded hills; along frequented highwaysor vague trails through the forests.

Sometimes they went as far as Burlington and Morganhad to cross many streams and wade through foaming,circling water, which, when very deep, gave him asense of adventure. He was always ready to swim ifthe need came, and would have hesitated at nothing hisrider set him to do, such confidence did he feel in Man-wisdom.

If they were not in a hurry David would allow him toplay along the way, knowing well enough the horsewould not abuse the privilege. He rode with a looserein, and on the way home would let the Morgan choosehis own gait and trail. The firm touch on the bridlewas as light as a woman’s, but Morgan was not fooledby it. He well knew this was a rider who would brookno impertinence, and it kept him steady and respectful,even while he took advantage of the permission to frolica little.

These two saw many strange sights in their wanderings—​sightsthat later history proved were the makingof a fine and sturdy race of men and horses.

Ofttimes, in bitter winter weather, they passed littlebare-foot children on their way to school, carrying theirshoes in their cold hands, to put on, in a very elegantmanner, at the school-house door; to walk in them wouldhave been wilful extravagance, though their toes wereblue with cold! If, by chance, they found a cow lyingdown, chewing on her morning cud, they would disturbher rudely and make her get up, that they might puttheir bare feet on the spot she had so nicely warmedfor her own comfort.

But better and more prosperous times were coming,and it was not long before shoes were looked upon as anecessity for children, not an extravagance, though theywere ever evil-smelling things—​the leather being home-tannedand home-cured and needing much greasing atnight to keep it soft enough to make the shoes wearable.They made an unseemly clumping on the floor, and werevery ugly, but their aim being use, not beauty, this wasno drawback.

Sometimes kind and gentle Mistress Hannah Wingrode the Morgan to a quilting bee, or meeting, or to suchentertainments as ladies saw fit to attend. She wasgood to him and made his visits to their barn mostpleasant. In the mornings she would come tripping out,her arms full of dew-wet clover or grass, just cut, orshe would have a dish of goodies from the kitchen—​somecarrots or turnips. ’Twas no wonder the horseloved her and called to her, as she drew near, with hisaffectionate little neigh. He always hoped David mightbuy him from Hawkins; he loved the Wings and theyreturned his friendship. And a horse never knowswhen he may change owners. He can only hope his nextone may be the one of his choosing, which does sometimeshappen.

The minds of the Vermonters in those days dwelt onhigher things than fashions, especially with the men, andthe wearing of beavers was not common, unless perhapsthe hat was inherited. Hats were so much better madethen, and so expensive, that a beaver lasted from thirtyto forty years, and was passed on from father to son. Inthis way it had come to be looked on as frivolous andextravagant to be seen in a new one; if any man hadthe courage to buy such, he left it out in the weather afew nights to “take that new look off” before he woreit in public.

At this time David Wing was town-clerk, and oneday on his return from a trip to Boston, by stage, hebrought home something in what was unmistakably a hatbox.

Gossip concerning so important a man soon flew about,and the box became town-talk before the day was over.Women folks came, on one pretext or another, to callon Mistress Wing. Some asked her rule for wheatencake, others how she made her cheeses, and so on. Butit did not take their clever hostess long to find out thetrue aim of their calls, and being right proud of the hatherself, she took it out of the box and showed it to themall. ’Twas very tall and glossy, and shaped liked therain barrel; the brim was so low in front it would hideits wearer’s nose completely; suddenly it curved sharplyat the sides in the manner of a drawn bow; and, alltold, it was an elegant bit of the latest Boston fashion.

’Twas to be worn, Mistress Wing informed her callers,for the first time at meeting the next Sabbath.

Many were the exclamations of “Land sakes!” and“Do tells!” that the sight of the hat provoked, and muchpleased was Mistress Hannah to be able to awaken somuch admiration for her husband’s taste.

Unfortunately David did not wait until the Sabbathto wear his new hat; had he done so history, in all likelihood,would never have recorded the fact that he hadowned a beaver.

The very next morning he came swinging out of thehouse looking most gentlemanly in his high stock, ruffledshirt and shining boots. On his head sat, most jauntily,the new hat.

David was off for a town meeting.

Down the road cantered Morgan, meeting many acquaintanceswho paused in speechless admiration untilthey passed out of sight. Some with envy, alack; somewith criticism of the extravagance, but others withfriendly nod of greeting and approval.

The sun shone, the crisp air was fragrant with pineneedles, and birds chirped in the trees that fringed thehighway. Morgan champed his bit and curvetted fromone side of the road to the other, his heart full of themorning freshness.

Suddenly a yellow dog came in sight, and the horse,full of fun and spirit, lowered his head and made a dashat him, remembering his colt-days and the game of“Red-Coats.” The dog tucked his tail between his hind legsand made off down the road at lightning speed.

This was enough to rouse Morgan; even though hedid not like dogs, he thought it might be a race. Helter,skelter, he started; ever fleet in running, he was soongaining slowly, but surely, on the dog, who was littlemore than a yellowish brown streak on the landscape.

Morgan heard David say, good-naturedly:

“Go it, my boy, stop when you get good and ready; Iam having as much fun as you.”

Once, as the dog glanced hurriedly back over hisshoulder, the horse saw his tongue hanging out—​helooked almost winded, but his pace was long and even,like Morgan’s, and his flapping ears responded rhythmicallyto his gait.

Morgan tossed his head and made a movement withhis tail as much as to indicate he had just begun to race.The rapid clatter of his own hoofs on the hard road wasmusic to him.

Seconds passed. Then the dog disappeared at a sharpbend in the road.

Losing sight of him for a moment nerved Morganto a sudden spurt. With all his power impelling him he,too, rounded the corner—​and ran headlong into twohorsemen who had been jogging peacefully and unsuspectinglyalong the quiet and seemingly deserted highway.

What a reckoning there was! Never was such confusion!Lawyer Buckley slid from the back of his ponyand his books broke from the strap and were scatteredover the road; Dr. Pierce’s saddle bags burst open andpills and bandages fell out as if to offer their help in theemergency.

Morgan, realizing he had caused all the trouble, kepthis presence of mind admirably, and stood firm andmotionless where his front feet had plowed into theearth at his sudden halt. David did not lose his seat,but the stop, without any warning, almost threw himover Morgan’s head.

When things had steadied a bit, and explanations andapologies made, David noticed for the first time, as heput his hand up to remove his hat, and wipe the perspirationfrom his brow, that his beaver was missing.

Under the very feet of Dr. Pierce’s nag, who stoodstill snorting her expostulations, it was found. LawyerBuckley picked it up, shaking his head with ill-concealedsatisfaction.

“’Tis but a crushed and torn rag,” he said, brushingit the wrong way with the sleeve of his coat; “but youhave that young Morgan to thank for the prank.”

At these words Morgan was more mortified than ever,though he could not help glancing furtively about forthe dog and pricking his ears back and forth for sounds.Soon he espied and heard him a short way ahead,yelping from the cover of his owner’s hut, surroundedby a protecting and gaping crowd of small bare-footchildren who had assembled from the other side of thehouse to find out what the matter was.

It is not necessary to relate with what fallen crestMorgan bore his rider home after the day closed in.The hat, so lately the envy of the whole town, hiddenunder his rider’s coat, to be laid away until MistressHannah could restore it to some of its first magnificence.

CHAPTER XIV.

MORGAN MAKES A TRIP TO BOSTON.

For several days Morgan showed his regret at thefate of the beaver by neither romping nor playing.When David and himself were on their way from placeto place and resting at noon, he cropped grass in a verystaid and dignified manner, whilst David sat in the shadeand ate his luncheon of light wheaten cakes and cheese,the two things for which Mistress Hannah was famous.

On these trips they sometimes met the Boston-Canadastage coaches, carrying the mail, and they would standone side and watch the horses running at full speed overthe rough roads; the horn winding a lusty warning toprivate coach, curricle or rider, that might be approachingfrom the other direction round a sharp bend in theway.

Again they would pass lazy oxen, drawing their sledsslowly to market, or coming home from mill, their loadscreaking behind them as they swayed awkwardly fromside to side, responding reluctantly to the goad-sticks intheir drivers’ hands.

These pioneer teams drew the products of the outlyingfarms—​maple sugar, and potash and “black salts”—​(gatheredby thrifty farmers from the ashes of winterfires or logging heaps)—​to the towns.

The forests of Vermont at first were gloomy and almostimpenetrable, tending, some claimed, to make thepeople grave and serious, but already the lumber industryhad begun the destruction of the beautiful woods ofhemlock, birch, white pine, ash, chestnut and stately oak.Saw-mills whirred and sang busily on river banks, whosefalls afforded such marvellous water-power for theirwheels, and comfortable houses soon took the place ofpioneer huts in many places.

In spite of his faithful service to the Wings, they didnot buy the Morgan, and Hawkins after a while soldhim to the same Robert Evans, at Randolph, for whomhe had once done such good service.

Randolph had a newspaper now, called The WeeklyWanderer, and this praised the Morgan so highly thatfor a while, out of pride, Evans had to keep him in goodcondition. But unfortunately this pride lasted but ashort time, Evans being too busy at his farm work andtrapping, earning a living for his family.

On the day of his return to Randolph, Morgan heardthat Master Justin Morgan had gone on to “lie in greenpastures, beside still waters.” So sweet a sound hadthis to the lonely horse, separated from his good friendsin Montpelier, that he sometimes wandered away fromthe Evans’ primitive barn, looking for that “Valley ofthe Shadow” of which men spoke when referring to thekindly school-master. The heat of the mid-summer dayssometimes oppressed the little horse, and he grew thinand weary at the plow, but there was no “Valley of theShadow” for him—​no other valley could he find than hiswork-a-day one along the banks of the sparkling WhiteRiver in full sunshine.

In the weary battling against the uncongenial farmlife, he was no little cheered by the memory of what hisfather told him of his high-crested ancestor, the GodolphinArabian—​that he, in all his greatness and beauty,had once pulled a water cart in France.

In a year the brave little horse was unrecognizable;his once glossy, soft coat had coarsened, and often hewas humiliated by the knowledge that there were burrsin his tail and in the bit of dark hair that grew above hisfetlocks.

Chase’s Mill was still the centre of the town’s gaiety;occasionally there were races, but rarely were the horsesworth Morgan’s effort.

In spring, when the world was full of flowers, andorchids and blue flags hung their banners out to temptthe Evans children into the woods, Morgan would gowith them to gather these or the more useful medicinalherbs for times of sickness—​pleurisy-root, marshmallowor ginseng. In summer he went with them to pick berriesof all sorts or wild grapes, and when the autumncame, with its glory of beech and maple, turning tocopper and scarlet, he would bring home their bags ofnuts across his round back.

In winter his coat grew long and thick; and Evanshimself rode him to distant traps set in the forest forbear, musk-rat and foxes, which supplied food or clothingfor the family. The horse grew accustomed aftera while to the monotony of his life and tried to make thebest of it.

One cold, clear day Evans cleaned him so very carefullyMorgan felt sure something was about to happen,but did not try to guess what; he had learned the futilityof that long ago, for things never came about as heguessed or planned they should.

In the course of time, however, he found himself canteringalong the stage-road to Boston. It was a triphe had long wanted to take, so many horses had toldhim what a beautiful and gay city it was.

The day being severely cold, he was glad enough ofthe long legs and homespun woolen breeches of his riderwhich covered so much of his sides. As for Evans, hehad his muskrat cap pulled well over his ears and hishome-made boots of calf-skin (smelling horribly ofgrease), with the heavy breeches tucked well inside,were warm and comfortable to his feet.

But they must have cut a sorry figure when theyreached Boston and went along Summer Street; thatlovely, fashionable thoroughfare, with its stately trees,beautiful flower gardens and splendid mansions.

It was dusk when they stopped in Corn Court, at theBraser Inn—​the famous hostelry opened by SamuelCole, in 1634, where Miantonomah’s painted Indians—​envoysto Sir Harry Vane—​had been entertained; wherethe French Premier, Talleyrand, had so lately stayed;where so many other events of history had taken place.

As Evans was hitching his horse to a post near theside door of the tavern, Morgan heard a familiar, banteringvoice; the odor of musk came to his nostrilsfaintly, and glancing about, he saw—​as he knew heshould—​the Coxcomb.

No fop of the King’s court could have looked moreelegant; his Continental coat, cocked hat and high shiningboots were of the latest cut—​not less offensive tothe simple taste of the horse was his insolent swagger.

Master Knickerbocker, of course, did not notice Morgan,but cried to Evans persuadingly:

“Tarry the night, my Green Mountain Giant, we canshow you rare sport at cards if you’ve money in yourpurse.”

Evans towered above the popinjay as his Green Mountainswould have towered over Beacon Hill. He gazeddown at him with contempt, vaguely, yet not definitely,recognizing his one-time antagonist in a race, as Morganhad.

“I have no money to lose to you, my young sir,” hemade reply, ungraciously. “I am but a simple farmer,and I play with none but my own kind. I do not knowthe rules by which such as you handle the cards!”

“Then join us in a glass of Medford rum—​such as youVermonters know so well how to appreciate—​’tis coldoutside and the landlord will mull us a bowl. Come,I say!”

He clapped the farmer hospitably on the shoulder infriendly fashion, and led the way into the tavern.

A kind bar-maid came out and threw a fur squareover Morgan’s shivering back and give him a warmmash, which comforted him greatly. He acknowledgedher friendliness, by nipping her sleeve gently with hislip; and as she was fond of horses, this pleased her,and she further brought him joy by patting his facegently and murmuring little love-talk in his ears.

Many hours later the side door opened and the Coxcombcame out. He was talking to himself as he closedthe door behind him, blotting out the sudden radiancefrom the great, roaring fire inside the tavern. He didnot notice Morgan, though he almost touched him in thedarkness as he paced to and fro.

“Egad!” he cried, under his breath; “the fellow hadmoney—​but he has it not. Let him go back where hebelongs, to his land of hemlock and frost-bitten, half-civilizedrace…. Yet,” and he almost sighed—​notquite, “even I awakened to a slight feeling of compunctionwhen he turned out the toe of a woman’s stockingand confessed it was his last shilling—​money, heremembered too late, his wife had given him to buy acalico gown…. Ha! Calico, at the trifle ofthree shillings the yard! Mistress Lloyd”—​here Morganpricked his ears back and forth—​“Mistress Lloydwears silks and satins, and her laces are like cobwebs….Oddsbodikins! There is a maid to turn a man’shead—​even mine! ’Twill not be long now before mysuit prospers…. I have won everything from herfather but his daughter, and I shall bide my time till Iwin her. I have made up my mind—​I, and not Dulaney,will live ‘Where the Great Lloyd sets his Hall!’”

Almost under Morgan’s nose he drew from his satinwaistcoat-pocket a snuff-box wrought in gold by a mastercraftsman. With the tips of his delicate fingers hedaintily pinched a few grains of the evil-smelling powderand placed it to his nostrils.

Morgan sneezed.

The Coxcomb stepped hurriedly aside with a prodigiousoath as the door of the Inn swung open.

Robert Evans stalked out into the night, his cappulled over his ears, his fur cape wrapped tight abouthis shoulders. The Coxcomb greeted him with a condescendingsmile and extended his snuff-box.

The giant waved it aside with a gesture of dignity andscorn.

“No, sir,” he said, shortly; “if the good Lord hadintended my nose for a dirt-box, he would have put iton upside down!”

Master Knickerbocker laughed, though Evans hadnot intended to be funny.

“Egad! A very good sally!” he drawled. “Yet I buttried to show my friendliness.”

“’Tis a pity you had not tried to show it earlier inthe evening,” returned Evans, gruffly, as he mountedhis horse and rode away.

Good Dame Evans would have no calico gown fromBoston, that was sure, and ’twas money she’d saved foryears from her cheese and butter sales, and kept in anold bee-hive in the attic, saying no word to anyone of it.

Now her sacrifices had gone to purchase snuff andperfume for the Coxcomb.


Justin Morgan | Project Gutenberg (5)

From a photograph.

“‘WHERE THE GREAT LLOYD SETS HIS HALL’!”


Morgan had often seen Dame Evans give the traditionalVermont “beech seal” to her sons—​and he wouldnot deny they needed it; and he had seen her dash scaldingwater on a prowling Indian; he guessed RobertEvans’ greeting, when they reached home, would not bean affectionate one.

On the way back to Randolph, Evans was in a temperand swore grievously. Morgan had caught a cold andcoughed constantly. The journey was withal a tryingone; ’twas not to be wondered at that the horse’s memoriesof Boston were neither beautiful nor gay, and thathe never had a desire to repeat his trip.

It was dark when they reached home, but MistressEvans, who had been on the lookout, threw open thekitchen door as they entered the gate, and the barnyardwas flooded with the warm glow of the firelightfrom within. Her head was tied up in a fustian squareand a fur was thrown over her shoulders. She ran outto greet them, a lanthorn in her hand.

“Welcome, home, Husband, dear!” she cried, cheerily.“Give me the purchases. I would see my calico frockwithout delay. Yes, and get to work on it, for ’tis noshort task to stitch those long seams—​with chores to dobesides!”

She held out her hand eagerly.

“Go into the house directly, Wife, out of the cold!”evaded Evans, taking the lanthorn from her. “I willbe in presently—​when I have bedded down the Morgan,”he added.

And she, being an obedient, womanly and faithful wife,suspecting nothing, went in to sing over the final preparationsof supper.

In spite of the cold and fatigue of his owner, Morgannever got a better rubbing-down nor a finer meal.

“Well, Morgan,” Evans murmured, at last, “I guessI can’t put it off any longer.”

He dragged his reluctant feet slowly toward the house,where Dame Evans was waiting for him with steaminghulled corn, fried pork and maybe something else—​whenshe found out his secret!

CHAPTER XV.

FOR MISTRESS LLOYD, OF MARYLAND.

In 1803 Morgan went to pass a week with his oldfriends, the Wings, and the visit was one long to beremembered.

The talk of the village was Mistress Hannah’s newsilken gown—​the first ever brought to Montpelier, so thetown history tells. David Wing was now Judge andSecretary of State, and his wife had to wear fineclothes, as befitted her station, for many were the callson her to entertain distinguished guests.

It was at a meeting in their new barn that MistressWing first wore the wonderful silk. All the other ladiespresent had on homespun and linen—​silk would havebeen called “flunk and flummux” on them.

The Judge that day wore his Indian cotton shirt withthe frills—​hemmed and tucked. It made a brave show,for cotton was three shillings the yard at that time.

I mention these historic facts merely to show thatMorgan played his part with the Quality of the times, aswell as at the plow, and to occupy a stall in the Judge’sgrand new barn was no small privilege to a horse!

But the greatest pleasure of all was when he heardthat Colonel Lloyd of Maryland, and his daughter hadcome a’visiting the Judge and his lady.

The Wings and the Lloyds had met in New York thewinter before and the Judge had unwoven some legaltangles for the Colonel. A friendship had resulted andnow the Southerners had come all the way from Marylandin their coach to enjoy the cool, summer breezes ofVermont under the hospitable roof of their New Englandfriends.

When the Judge brought them out to see his new barnMorgan recognized the swish of her petticoats at once,as Mistress Lloyd drew near the stable.

Knowing how they loved good horses their host threwopen Morgan’s door.

There was an instant’s pause, then:

“Why, I know this horse!” cried Mistress Lloyd. “Igave him his first blue ribband!”

Oh, the melody of her voice, and the feel of her cheekagainst his! At last, after years of parting, they met—​andshe had not forgotten him. Oh, wondrous memoryof such a woman as she!

Morgan was glad the Judge’s hired man had groomedhim so carefully that morning, and that not long before,the stable floor had been strewn with fresh, sweet sawdust.

“What a noble animal you’ve grown to be!” she whisperedin his waiting ear. “I predicted it full ten yearsagone!”

So it had been ten years since he had seen her last, yethe had cherished her, and she him, in memory, all thatlong time of busy scenes apart.

He pushed his small muzzle in and out among the lacesand gauzes of her neck so gently they were not disarranged,and she pressed her cheek close to his. Somethingin the tones of her voice told him she was nothappy, and as the delicious odor of her hair entered hisnostrils he whinneyed a question, softly.

As if understanding, she answered, murmuring nearhis ear,

“Dear Little Horse,” there was a catch in her voice, “Icannot buy you, even now, for our money is all gone!Daddy is no manager; he has ever been what they call a‘gentleman’ and our family mansion—​‘where the GreatLloyd sets his Hall’—​is to be sold to pay a most unjust‘debt of honor’—​I call it a debt of dishonor, for ’twasmade at the gaming table; and though Judge Wing beever so clever, he can do nothing now for my father andme!”

She leaned against Morgan; he heard a sob in herthroat as she clasped his arched neck.

He whinneyed his tenderest sympathy, and maybe shewould have told him more, but there came a sound ofvoices through the open door.

“Ah, here you are, my daughter!” It was the Colonelspeaking. “Come and greet our friend who has riddenall the way from Boston to see us. He says he has aplan whereby we may save our home!” Colonel Lloydspoke hopefully, if a little doubtfully.

Mistress Lloyd turned her face, flushed with emotion,and saw the Coxcomb, of whom Morgan had just caughtscent.

“A plan?” she questioned him, after a cold greeting.“You mean a price! ’Tis the same old one,” she saidwearily, “I do not need to be told!”

“My price,” he answered, shrugging his shoulders, “isoffered out of friendship for your father and—”

“You need not say!” she interrupted him, contemptuously.“’Tis not for friendship you do kindnesses!”

“You know my price,” he said, with calm insolence.“I have waited long,” he added, under his breath.

“I will never pay it!” she replied with steady scorn,but so firmly Master Knickerbocker could not but believeher.

The truth was, he wanted her to be his wife, and she,knowing what manner of man he was, had withstood hisimportunities for years. She would none of him.

She held her head high.

He shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows.

“As you will, Mistress! In one week more you andyour father will be beggars, and living on the charity ofyour friends—​unless?” He flicked his riding boot withhis whip and looked at her with defiance.

There was a short silence during which the lady grewvery haughty, and then began to move away.

“Come,” the Coxcomb spoke again, in a different tone,following after her. “You love a good race—​you’re aSoutherner—​what say you to a race—​yourself and yourhome the stake? If you win I will cancel all thesenotes I hold against your father and accept your refusalto marry me as final. If I win, ah——”

Mistress Lloyd silenced him with a movement; shewas no longer the slip of a girl True knew at Hartford.Here was a mature character of spirit and dignity, yetnot lacking in the sweetness of perfect womanhood.

“I understand—​you need not put the rest in words. Iwill ride your race, on this very horse—​and you?”

“I have Silvertail with me,” he answered, and in anundertone added, “You will not have the ghost of achance!”

If Mistress Lloyd did not hear this, Morgan did, andswitched his tail with satisfaction, moving his ears toand fro, to miss nothing.

Silvertail! If horses could laugh aloud, Morganwould have laughed. He recalled a race six years beforeagainst Silvertail and it seemed almost a miraclethat he should meet him again—​of all the other horsesin America—​in so important an event.

“I am not afraid of Silvertail,” came Mistress Lloyd’sbrave reply.

The Coxcomb looked at Morgan scornfully, not rememberinghow he, too, had been defeated by him yearsago, at Chase’s Mill!

“Then ’tis settled,” he said, confidently.

“Nay, not settled!” cried the lady, with well-feignedgaiety. “We’ve yet to put the matter in writing, all indue form with the Judge to advise.” For MistressLloyd was no careless person, when it came to business,nor no mean reader of men.

She placed her hand for a moment under Morgan’sjaw and felt his pulses surge in response to her touch;then she drew herself erect, reassured—​as if the racewere already won!

They left the stable making their plans.

An hour later, Judge Wing and the Colonel came intothe Morgan’s stall.

“My dear sir,” the Colonel was saying, “the folly ofit! My daughter—​and to ride for such a stake! Butyou know the girl. She has set her heart on it—​I cando nothing. She winds me about her finger as if I werea piece of string, since her dear mother died. Ourtrouble is all my fault, what with mortgages and debtsof honor, I am well paid for my follies—​and, after all,this race is better than seeing her married to the authorof all our unhappiness. Yet if she should not win!”

“No need to worry over that, my friend,” the Judgesaid. “Morgan has already beaten this Silvertail horse.”

“You don’t tell me!”

“I recall the circumstances perfectly,” continued theJudge. “Silvertail[10] is a horse with a reputation; he wasbred in St. Lawrence County, New York, and the Morganonce won a stake of fifty dollars in a race againsthim. It was in the life-time of Justin Morgan himself,and Master Morgan, sir, offered Silvertail two chancesto redeem himself afterwards, in either walking or running,but the offer was declined. The world doesn’tknow Morgan, but I do, and our race is already won!”

The horse arched his crest at these words of praise.

“Then all is said!” cried the Colonel, in a tone of relief.“My daughter is the finest horse-woman in Maryland,and that is no mean praise.”

He came to Morgan and placed his hand lightly onthe horse’s broad forehead, and seeing the Judge hadturned away, spoke softly near the pricking ear.

“Save her, Little Horse, and I will never touch anothercard!”

Already Morgan could feel the finish of that race andsee the flaxen-maned Silvertail toiling behind. He hadlittle regard for a horse with light points (but which dowell enough for mere beauty); deep in his heart hisrespect was for dark points, at once indicating possibilitiesof strength, docility and endurance—​he hadproven these qualities and knew!

That afternoon, the sun still high, he was led out tobe exercised and prepared for the race.

Then She came, and, mounting him, rode easily andgaily down the stretch of road to the blacksmith shopwhere the course, as usual, was marked out along thehighway.

In the fashion of the day her purple habit almostswept the ground as she sat her saddle with firm confidence;her wide hat and plume falling to her shoulders,framed her high-bred face. Her eyes sparkled—​for themoment she almost seemed to have forgotten the natureof the stake! Hers was the embodiment of that Southernspirit of which Beautiful Bay had so often told True.

Her grasp of the bridle rein was as gentle as a caress,but as firm as steel—​showing, well, she would brook nofoolishness from a horse.

Against the sky the Green Mountains reared theirheads, the pastureland on their sloping sides was patchedhere and there with cloud-shadows, and, where the sun’srays slanted on the Winooski it glittered like a silverline in the valley. No wind, and a late rain, made thecondition of the road perfect.

Loitering about the smithy were a few men whoroused themselves at sight of the Morgan cantering upwith a lady on his back.

Across the way, on the Inn porch, the sound of voicesrose and fell in argument over the policies of ThomasJefferson, the “Farmer” President; the purchase of Louisianafrom the French, and such topics of the time.The idle men to whom the voices belonged sat in a row,their chairs tilted against the wall, but when they sawthe Coxcomb swagger forth, they brought them down tothe floor, simultaneously, and stared curiously.

Silvertail was led up and the slender New Yorkerswung himself lightly into the saddle.

The idlers rose, gazed after the retreating horseman amoment, then strode with one accord down the Inn stepsand on to the smithy, just in time to see the Coxcombgive Mistress Lloyd a grand sweep of his hat, as he saidgallantly:

“’Tis hard to beat so fair an antagonist, but the stakeis one I must win!”

“The race is yet to be run!” the lady made reply,smiling, securely.

She released the fastenings of her plumed hat andtossed it to her father.

“Catch, Daddy, dear! I ride with no frills and furbelowsto-day! I wish I were that light Francis Buckle.Do you recall, Father, how he won last year at Epsomon Tyrant, the very worst horse that ever won aDerby?”

“My daughter is almost as light as Buckle and theMorgan a better horse. We have nothing to fear!” Sospoke Colonel Lloyd, bravely, and, patting Morgan’slong shoulder, he raised his hat with courtly grace andbade his daughter, “God-speed!” right gaily.

And Mistress Lloyd? She laughed serenely—​thatsame brook-like laugh of long ago; her lip did notquiver nor her voice tremble. With such spirit do mengo into battle. She gathered the reins in her slim, barehands—​no gloves should come between her and Morgan’smouth that day—​and smiled at her antagonist, asif to say:

“Morgan and I do not fear you and Silvertail!”

When Silvertail recognized Morgan, which he did atonce, he began to fret and prance. Morgan, however,made no false motions; he was saving every fibre ofenergy. With eager nostrils and arching crest hewaited the signal to start.

The Coxcomb sat his horse with consummate grace,but his eyes glittered cruelly, in a way that boded ill forSilvertail. In his hand he carried a silver-mountedwhip, on his heels spurs shone.

Mistress Lloyd, on the other hand, had neither whipnor spur; she ever depended on the tones of her voicefor success with horses; sitting like a model for an Amazon,she waited, calm, serene.

A furtive backward glance from Silvertail’s eye saidplainly enough, “For less than a carrot I’d bolt, to getout of this race!”

Once Morgan quivered as he remembered what hisfather had told him of Eclipse: “Eclipse first, the restnowhere!”

To-day it should be “Morgan first, Silvertail nowhere!”The breeze blew lightly at his mane, his eyesglowed, his neck strained as the signal was given.

Morgan leaped forward. They were off!

Swift, as one of a race divine who flies, rather thantreads the earth, Morgan’s deep, wide chest cleaved theair.

Pressing close came Silvertail, breathing heavily.

Mistress Lloyd had given Morgan his head, with intimatetrust and understanding. He would win—​in hisown way—​and she knew it. She was low in the saddle,leaning close to his extended neck, pressing her kneesagainst his side. In a tender, restrained voice she whispered,almost in his ear:

“Win, my beauty! Win me my soldier at WestPoint! Win me my love, my home, my father, and myfreedom from the persecutions of this man! Fly on!Fly on, you ‘Bird of the Desert’! Win, and Allah willbless you!”

She was stretched like an Indian along the back ofher running horse.

Then—​there they were at the end of the course, Morgana full length ahead of Silvertail!

In an instant she was off and had buried her face inMorgan’s mane; she was sobbing and laughing all atonce, with her arms close about the horse’s neck, as ifshe would never let him go!

Silvertail came up, a small spot of blood showing onhis side where the cruel spur had wounded him.

Master Knickerbocker drew from his pocket a packetof papers, taking his defeat outwardly in better part thanmight have been expected.

“You have won, ma’am,” he said in a low, hoarsevoice, for he had much to do to control himself. “Youhave won, and that right fairly. I could have wished itotherwise, nor do I yet see how ’twas done! Your horsewas better than mine, I suppose; and now I shall bidyou good-bye, forever.”

Mistress Lloyd took the packet in her trembling fingers;with her face still screened behind the Morgan, shesaid gently,

“Nay, but I must thank you for these——”

But she was interrupted, brusquely:

“There is naught to thank me for,” he said, with truth.“Thank that Canadian scrub of yours. Since the race isover methinks I have tried conclusions with him before,many years back when we were both younger; I shalllook to it that I am not deceived into competing withhim again! That horse ought to be on The Plains ofAbraham; he is wasted here!”

Mistress Lloyd extended her hand across the Morgan’sneck, and Master Knickerbocker raised it to his lips withhis usual grace; then he swung himself into his saddleand galloped out of sight.

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Morgan Horses, Linsley, page 134.

CHAPTER XVI.

IN WHICH MORGAN IS KNOWN AS THE GOSS HORSE.

Soon after his race with Silvertail, Morgan’s reputation,having spread so far, he was bought by ColonelJohn Goss, who, not caring to have the trouble of ahorse himself, rode him over to St. Johnsbury, andloaned him to David Goss.

When they arrived it was the eve of Training Day,the second of June, and many farmers were gatheredand making merry at the tavern. Having all heard ofthe Morgan, a great sensation was created as ColonelGoss rode him up to the porch of the Inn to show himoff after Abel Shorey had trimmed and rubbed himdown.

He had cantered gaily up—​mane and tail waving, widenostrils tremulous at new scents, alert ears pricking fornew sounds.

Later he was ridden to his stable in David Goss’s barn.The Goss place was a fine one, with large farmhouse,barn and outbuildings, the whole being surrounded bytall and stately trees.

It was a beautiful home for a horse to claim, and itwas to be Morgan’s for a long time. Here his name waschanged again, and he became known as the Goss Horse,and was valued at one hundred dollars.

Under David’s saddle he travelled more than ever tonear-by towns and farms; he went to East Bethel, Williamstown,Greensboro and Claremont. In all of theseplaces he was made welcome and, for a hundred yearsand more, men have been telling of these visits.

Sometimes David rode him to “raising parties,” wherehe stood one side and watched strong young men liftthe ponderous bents for the barn or house about to bebuilt. They used pike-poles, and shouted loudly, liftingthe bents one by one till the tenons sank into place inthe sill-mortises; then, some dare-devil afraid-of-nothing,went up the new-hoisted bents like a squirrel and drovethe pins into place.

While men worked this way, or at the plow, womensat at home and dipped candles or spun and wove flaxand wool, and made them into clothes.

Those were grand days in Vermont—​when neighborswere neighbors, and the world was full of hope andkindliness.

At this time Samuel Goss owned a newspaper calledThe Montpelier Watchman, and in its columns could befound notices of the endurance, beauty and gentlenessof the Goss—​but far from turning his level head, it onlymade him strive harder to deserve the praise. Modestlyand cheerfully he went his way as farm-horse, saddle-horse,carriage-horse: always endearing himself to everyone associated with him. It was his perfect training andhis willingness to obey that was ever the secret of successof Justin Morgan.[11]

By this time Montpelier was growing so prosperous,being made the capital in 1808, that people began tothink more of pleasure parties, and bees of all sorts wereheld. History gives the credit to Mistress DebbieDaphne Davis for inventing pumpkin pies, without agoodly supply of which no company was considered complete.Even Goss had his share of these, for every onepaid him attentions when he waited outside a house forhis rider. He found the pies very palatable, for at thekitchen windows of his women friends he had learnedto appreciate many concoctions not usually known tohorses.

Sometimes a lady rode him to meeting in St. Johnsbury.[12]The meeting house was little larger than hisstall, and from where he waited he could hear thepreacher shouting forth healthy doctrine in liberal measurewith a strong flavor of brimstone. After this thecongregation would rise, noisily, as with relief, and singa hymn at the tops of their voices. Sometimes theysang “Mear,” which ever reminded Morgan of the Randolphsinging-teacher who had been his good friend, andwhose name he once bore.

Vermonters were real Christians in those days andregulations regarding the keeping of the Holy Sabbathwere enforced by tithing-men who walked among thepeople during Meeting to see that they behaved themselvesin a seemly manner. If any one was caught asleepor inattentive, and a Christian whack over the head witha hymn-book did not waken him to a fitting sense of hisresponsibilities, a committee of Selectmen “waited” uponhim the next day with results entirely satisfactory.

Such visits, however, were uncommon. The pioneersof Vermont were a law-abiding people, honest, thrifty,religious and possessing all the virtues that go to makeup a strong, fine race.

That same year, 1808, Goss found himself in Burlingtonfor a time, and had an adventure known in the historyof Vermont, although his name has never beforebeen recorded in connection with it.

One evening he went, under the saddle of a revenueofficer, bent on a secret mission, to the mouth of theWinooski.

Chill and darkness settled on the forest, stars cameout and they tarried at the farm of Ira Allen, at RockyPoint, until the great yellow moon swam into sight andother officers joined them.

Leaves rustled softly as they started out through thewoods, an owl hooted solemnly, and from somewhere faroff a whippoorwill called.

A short ride brought them to rugged rocks and rudecliffs overhanging the river, in the then almost untouchedforest, where Goss was left behind a sheltering boulder.

In a few moments he distinctly saw a boat floatingon the quiet bosom of the water. The far-flung sound ofmen’s voices came to him borne on the slight wind thatsighed in the treetops. It was an inexpressibly lonelyspot, and Goss shuddered once with a feeling of impendingtragedy.

Having heard much talk of the Smuggler—​“BlackSnake”—​for which the Government had been watchingso long—​with rum, brandy, and wines on board—​it wasnot hard for him to guess why the officers were here.

As the vessel hove to, shadowy figures dropped fromher side and began unloading kegs and indistinguishableobjects. For a time deathly stillness reigned. Everresponsive to influences, Goss breathed softly, and didnot sneeze. The officers stepped as lightly as cats, bracingthemselves.

Suddenly there was the crackle of a musket from thebank, followed by others, then the boat answered, shotfor shot. The woods blazed—​the echoes woke. Bulletswhistled through the trees above the horse, but heneither flinched nor whinneyed as the scattered leavesfell about him. After a while, quivering with subduedexcitement, he strained his neck forward with dilatingnostrils—​he hoped it was a battle!

And it was—​in a small way.

A man, poised on the deck of the “Black Snake,”swayed and pitched head-first into the river and sankbeneath the dark water. There were oaths and cries,then the “Black Snake” gathered sail and sped beforethe rising wind down the river and out of sight, followedby a volley of musketry.

This was but one of the many episodes of that borderState, Vermont, which gave her an atmosphere of adventureand filled her young men with courage and herwomen with that quality of coolness which faces lifeand its cares unflinchingly.

A little later Goss saw several men advancing, tired,silent and grim. They were mountain men and stern,they had not much to say, but they bore between themthe lifeless body of the officer who had so lately beenthe horse’s pleasant rider.

Goss shivered as they placed their burden across hisback.

As they set out wearily toward Burlington betweencrag and tree the dawn showed, coming over the mountain,spreading long shafts of crimson on the placid lake.Tahawas, towering above the former domains of theIroquois Indians, reared his lofty head dimly in the distancethrough the dispersing mists.

Slowly they went through the forest over thick pineneedles which deadened their steps, through vague shadowydells where ferns grew rank and cool streamstrickled; on through the pathless woods until finally theyreached a farm-clearing, in the centre of which, set in aframe of apples trees, stood a long, low house. Reverentlythe men lifted the burden from the horse’s back,and, with lowered heads and measured tread, they boreit into the house.

Goss waited patiently. He heard a robin singing in anapple tree among the rustling leaves. He watched ahairy woodpecker run up the side of a tree, using hisbill as a pick-axe and scaling off bits of bark sidewaysas he ran, disturbing a squirrel who sprang nimbly fromlimb to limb. A meadow-lark dipped across the sky overlevel fields of delicious beans, maize and squashes; apartridge called from the distance and fleecy cloudsfloated across the now full-risen sun casting long shadowson the lake, like the spirit of Hiawatha’s white canoe—​tothe southward grim Regiohne, gloomy sentinel ofrock, kept guard. Around all the fine frame of mountainsranged.

In the golden morning sunshine Nature glowed withhappiness. Then all at once a low sound came to Goss’spricking ears, the sound of a woman weeping, and ashadow fell across the doorway, as of an angel’s wing.

The Goss horse played his part, too, in many fine affairs.The following year at the inauguration of thePreacher-Governor, Jonas Galusha, he had the honor ofcarrying the newly-elected Chief Magistrate in the grandparade. Crowds shouted and cheered as they passed,drums were beaten and guns fired. Goss was almostas much noticed as the Governor himself!

The Executive spoke in the town hall, outside whichthe horse waited. Goss could hear the applause now andthen, and when the speech was finished a wag cried out:

“Now let’s sing ‘Mear’!”

Every one knew that “Mear” was the Governor’s favoritehymn, but instead of singing, as Goss hoped theywould, an outburst of laughter greeted the suggestion,and the crowd poured noisily out into the street oncemore.

Goss had a good time that day prancing to the musicand showing off. His enjoyment of such gay doings alwaysmade him popular with the men, yet so gentlewas he that women constantly borrowed him to ride tomeetings, quiltings, bees, or funerals.

At Burlington in this same year, 1809, the launchingof the steamboat “Vermont” (of which they had talkedso long) took place. The “Vermont” had been builtsecond to the “Clermont” (launched on the Hudson,about two years before), but an unavoidable delay madeher the fifth steamboat to be launched.

At great expense this passenger steamer had been builtand was to run from White Hall to St. Johns in twenty-fourhours! It was almost too much to ask the peopleto believe, said the newspapers! One and all they predictedfailure. Steamboats in those days occupied muchthe same place in the estimation of the people as airshipsdid a hundred years later. Many called it a foolishwaste of money, and dangerous withal, but John Winans,who made the boat, was confident it would mark anepoch in history.

Larger and finer than the “Clermont,” the success ofthe “Vermont” on Lake Champlain does not concern ourhero.

The streets were crowded with passengers from themail coaches; the Foote House was taxed to capacity;four-, six- and eight-horse teams, with now and then aCanadian spike-team, blocked the thoroughfares.

Into this atmosphere of excitement and interest Davidand Goss cantered early that morning, and put up at thehouse of Mr. Loomis. This historic house had shelteredHis Royal Highness, Edward, Duke of Kent, who, inthe year 1793, was travelling with his suite in sleighsfrom Boston to Canada. It was built of logs hewn outwith a broad-axe and made a most warm and fittingplace for so great a personage to tarry in, not less comfortabledid our two more humble friends find it sixteenyears later.

Nothing eventful occurred after the launching of theboat except that Goss met a horse from Maryland, whogave him news of Mistress Lloyd, now married to anarmy officer, known as the dashing Lieutenant Tom Dulaney.

The Southern horse told him also of the lately openedBaltimore course and of the great race there betweenMr. Ogle’s Oscar and First Consul, and how Oscar ranthe second heat in the extraordinary time of 7:40, aspeed that had never been exceeded for the same distance,and which seemed almost a miracle!

FOOTNOTES:

[11] “In the relations, duties, and pleasures of the road—​andfamily-horse the Morgan has never had an equal in this country,no matter what his blood.”—​John Wallace, Wallace’s Monthly.

[12] “I have always admired the Morgans. I believe that no familyof horses has ever been produced which possesses in a highdegree so many valuable qualities which go to make up an idealgentleman’s roadster, a family, or all-purpose horse, as the familyfounded by Justin Morgan.”—​S. W. Parlin, Editor, AmericanHorse Breeder.

CHAPTER XVII.

IN THE FLOOD OF 1811.

In 1811 Samuel Stone bought the little horse andchanged his name back to Morgan. Once more hewent to live in Randolph, which had been the scene ofhis early triumphs.

There had been many changes in the town, and nearlyall his old friends had moved away or outgrown theirinterest in tests of strength and speed. Only one ofthem was left, James Kelsey, and he, being fond ofhorses, often rode Morgan from place to place for Stone.

Kelsey was called the village “cut-up,” though he wasno longer a boy, but he had a kind heart and was thefriend of every one. Sometimes he rode the Morganalongside the stage-coaches and thrilled the passengerswith stories of pioneer times; of bears, and Indians.

One day, as they were nearing Tunbridge, Kelsey toldthem of the burning of that place by three hundred Indians,who swept down from the north under the commandof a British soldier, Lieutenant Horton.

This reference to the British reminded Morgan of hisold enemy, the Tory boy, whose dog had killed BlackBaby. The boy must now have reached man’s estate,and Morgan wondered if he would recognize him if hesaw him, and if Allah was planning an opportunity forhim to give his promised kick. In all these years he hadnever forgotten his vow.

Kelsey was a very skillful rider, and could do wonderfulthings from a horse’s back, which Morgan enjoyed,for it showed off his smooth and easy gaits. Sometimes,after slipping off his heavy boots and tying them to hisstirrup, he would spring to his feet on the horse’s back,and stand balancing himself while Morgan glided evenlyalong under him; or, riding hard, he would stoop andpick up a stone or stick; or, if there chanced to be apretty flower beside the road, he would set the horserunning and lean swiftly down, pluck the flower, andwait for the coach to catch up, that he might hand it tosome lady passenger, with a bow and sweep of his hat.

One of his anecdotes, which always brought a laughfrom the passengers—​especially if they were from NewYork—​was how the tract of land, now known as Vermont,was granted to Dominie Dillius, of Albany, in1696, for the “annuall rente of one racoon skinne.”

“The New York legislature,” Kelsey always finished,“later called this ‘rente’ excessive!”

During that spring there came a scourge of locusts.They ate up the trees and all green things. Wise oldwomen declared them a sign of coming disaster—​disasterenough they were of themselves! With their stridentcries they drowned the prayers of the Righteouswho sat in meeting praying to be delivered from themand their consequences.

One day at noon a darkness fell over everything;cocks crew; pigs squealed; cows came home, lowing;dogs howled, dismally; and cats mewed, distressingly.

Morgan, sensitive to all influences, shivered andmoaned, softly.

One of the most fearsome calamities in the history ofVermont was, indeed, about to descend.

Masses of clouds rose and blotted out the sun; thestorm came closer; thunder crashed; the wind howled;rain began to fall.

Day after day lightning flashed, thunder jarred theearth, and the rain fell unceasingly. There seemed noend to it!

Creek and river beds lost all identity; mountains wereobscured in the downpour. In lowlands, beaver meadowsand swampy places the water rose, and kept rising.Mountain streams became torrents, creeks became rivers.

It was a deluge!

Birds, drenched through their feathers, starved andfell to the earth, chilled to death; insects were washedout of the air; late-hatched broods of wild ducks weredrowned and the eggs of wild-fowl floated on the surfaceof the waters.

Weasels, stoats and such creatures as could swimreached higher ground and for a short time saved theirlives. Cattle, which had sought slightly dryer quarterson hillocks, were drowned as they called aloud, piteously,for help. Field-mice, rabbits and moles were suffocatedin the rain-sodden earth. Foxes climbed into bushes toawait the going down of the waters and were drowned,or starved to death, waiting.

This was the year men praised the Lord for directingthem to build their towns on hills, for they werethus above the valley floods that poured towards theConnecticut or the lake. But all about their homes thepine-needles and underbrush held the water like asponge.

On one of the very worst nights of the “flood” SamuelStone set out to help a neighbor rescue his cattle.

Stone apologized to Morgan for taking him out onsuch a night, with thunder and lightning so terrible.

“’Tis hard to go out in such weather, Pony, but wemust help our neighbors in their troubles, else when weare in straits they will not come to us!”

The dense blackness and silence that followed the rapidflashes of orange lightning and roaring thunder—​andhis natural terror of storms—​confused Morgan’s sightand hearing.

Fortunately, however, he had never had rheumatism,nor stiffness of any kind, and his reluctance to leave hisleaky stable was counteracted by his desire to do hisduty bravely.

Trusting blindly in his master’s judgment, he canteredoff.

The wind blew and whistled like evil spirits, theswaying trees bent almost to the ground, but at last theyreached the neighbor’s house and succeeded in saving histerrified cattle, though with great difficulty. Afterwardsthe neighbor besought them to pass the night, but Stonerefused, saying that, “by morning the bridges would allbe gone and they must be getting home-along beforethat happened!”

Hurriedly partaking of a hot supper in the leakingkitchen, near a sputtering fire, and after giving Morgana good, warm mash, Stone mounted and rode away intothe storm and night.

Darkness fell about them like a blanket; there wasnothing for the rider to do but leave it to his horse’s instinctand sense of direction to take him home.

Not once did Justin Morgan hesitate.

Very soon, by the roar of water the horse knew theywere near Beaver Creek, a torrent, rising high in themountains, and gathering strength as it raced and toreto the valley through narrow gorges, was now a ragingcataract. In crossing this stream earlier, Morgan hadperceived that the bridge could not last much longer;he had felt the timbers tremble under his tread.

Now, several hours later, he could hear the current,more angry than before, whirling its mass of foam anddébris against the banks. As they reached the placewhere the bridge ought to have been not a ray of starlightshowed Stone it was no longer there. But involuntarily,he refrained from guiding or suggesting tothe horse any course of action. The reins lay loose evenwhen Morgan paused at the brink of the torrent.

Leaning forward, Stone patted the horse’s neck gently,and said in a soothing voice:

“Steady, Boy, steady!”

Morgan responded.

He could see with his keen eyes, the white, turbidwater, below the very place where the bridge had been—​onestringer alone of the structure remained, and thiswas scarce above the violent current! The rushing,churning water swirled against the banks impetuously.

Cautiously, the horse tried the wide beam with onefoot. Feeling it secure, he tried another; in the inkydarkness, he pushed his feet along gently, lest he stepon an upstanding nail.

Steadily, firmly, without wavering, without—​above all—​interferencefrom his rider, he went on over the spinningfoam on his narrow foot-bridge.

At last he put his foot on solid ground and, with aslight, throaty sound of relief, he cantered briskly offtoward home.

As they neared the house he whinneyed, as was hiscustom, and Mistress Stone threw open the door andstood silhouetted against the radiance from within. Theglow of firelight penetrated the darkness, and from aguttering candle, held high above her head, a tiny beamof welcome went out to her good man.

“Oh, Samuel,” she cried, right joyfully, “’tis a greatcomfort to hear your voice again! By what road cameyou back?”

“By Beaver Creek Road, wife,” he made answer.

“But, look you, the bridge is gone—​how crossed youthe creek?”

“By the bridge, all the same—​’twas not gone five minutesago.”

“But, indeed, ’tis washed away a long time since,” hiswife cried, in amazement, “for James Kelsey came bythese two hours agone and told me he had but justcrossed in time. Scarce had he landed on this side whenthere was a great crashing and grinding of timbers andthe whole thing was swept away before his very eyes!He saw by a flash of lightning—​all went but one stringerwhich was wedged against the rocks at either end!”

And, marvelling together, they fed the “pony” as befitteda hero, though Morgan looked upon it as but anincident in the day’s work and went about his delicioussupper with placid forgetfulness of all else.

CHAPTER XVIII.

UNDER CAPTAIN DULANEY.

Then one day the sun rose clear and bright, the waterssank and the mountains showed clean-cut against thefleckless sky—​but no bees buzzed, no sweet odors filledthe air, no wild flowers carpeted the woods, no butterfliesfluttered, no birds sang.

Vermont tasted that year the bitter cup of desolation.

A dire scourge of spotted fever, or “plague,” the doctorscalled it, broke out, severest in Montpelier. Consternationwas great among the Sabbath-abiding folkwho claimed solemnly that the affliction was due to theworldly ways and “flunk and flummux” of the “foreigners”who came from other states to pass the summer inthe Green Mountains. Even the women of Vermont,themselves, had taken to wearing laces, ribbands, frillsand furbelows—​most unbecoming in God-fearing females!

Stagnant water stood in pools, here and there, houseswere damp, there were no crops, and all food was mouldyand unwholesome, for lack of sunshine.

In Montpelier men went from house to house, carryinglong bathing vessels, and such of the women as had notyet been attacked with the “plague” bathed the strickenones in an infusion of hemlock boughs. Doctors bledthem and dosed them with teas more or less harmfulmade of ginseng, pleurisy-root and marshmallow. Freshair, sunshine and pure water with proper nourishmentwould have been better, but in those days bleeding andherb-teas were the two panaceas for all ills.

In Williston, Dame Susannah Wells, who had reachedthe ripe age of one hundred and four years and seen herdescendants die year after year of old age—​withoutwarning fell ill with the plague and died. Had it notbeen for this her acquaintances had long since come tothe conclusion she would have lived forever. Childrenand babies were mowed down with equal impartiality bythe Reaper; men and women succumbed; but Morgan’shardihood saved him from any ill effects of the long, wetseason.

Events in his life, following 1811, were not of greatimportance and may be passed over until Stone put himup for sale in Burlington, at the stable of the Rev. DanielClark Sanders, President of the fine College on the hill.There he stayed for a long time, as he was growing old,they said, and no one wanted to buy him. President Sanderswas quite willing, for he had the use and care ofhim all that while. Now and then Stone came to thestable with a prospective buyer, but a trade was neverconsummated.

As a convenient dooryard Ira Allen had given a spaceof fifty acres around the College, called The Green. Itwas still full of stumps and piles of brush, but made adelightful place for the cows and horses of the town tograze, and here Morgan had many agreeable experiences.

The merry students, passing by, gave him friendlygreeting always and a dainty of some kind from theirlunches; he learned to know the whistle of many andwhinneyed to them as they ran toward him.

Often, as he stood nibbling grass he saw a strangelooking youth limp across the Green with never a nod orgreeting for him or any one else. Absorbed, stern ofexpression, and morose, this lad was destined to rise toprominence, the like of which could not be foreseen inone without influence, the son of a poor, hard workingwidow. This lame boy was none other than youngThaddeus Stevens, who, by industry and perseverance,gained his book-learning in Burlington and later graduatedat Dartmouth College.

Burlington was now a very different place from thelogging camp Morgan first remembered. The oldwharf, made of a few logs fastened together, at the footof King’s Street, had given way to a fine new one;houses had taken the place of camps and were scatteredas far as the Winooski.

The College on the Hill, commanding the lake, gavedistinction to the town, seeming to crown it with a capof learning; Ira Allen’s iron foundries, mills and forgesgave work to many, and linen, woolen and cotton millshad been built; an immense quantity of liquor was distilled.It was a busy and prosperous town, havinggrown greatly in importance since Ira Allen launchedhis first schooner, “Liberty,” a long while before.

One day Stone brought to the stable an army officer.The military hat was set well upon the handsome headof the stranger, a cloak was flung with careless graceabout his shoulder; spurs shone on his heels and a swordclanked, musically, at his side.

Intuitively, Morgan liked this man. It was easy to seehe was a fine, brave American soldier, with a cool andlevel head. His uniform was grand and inspiring to thehorse, who still looked upon soldiers and the idea of warwith quivering anticipation.

“So this is the horse, eh?” the officer asked Stone, andMorgan knew by his soft tone and speech that he camefrom the same state as Mistress Lloyd—​there was nomistaking a Marylander! As the stranger caught thehalter his touch was so firm and friendly the horse knewinstantly that here was his master. He arched his crest,pawed the ground prettily, and thrust his large, sensitivenostrils forward.

Stone led him out into the bright sunshine; the officerexamined him thoroughly—​an operation Morgan hadlong since grown accustomed to, as he had changedowners so often.

A flame of friendship sprang up between the two.

“I can scarce credit his age to be twenty-two!” saidthe stranger. “He has such suppleness of joint, hemoves with the action of a five-year-old!”

Stone was pleased and proud of his horse; he said:

“Those are his characteristics, Captain Dulaney!”

Dulaney? Morgan’s memory awoke, vaguely.

“And from what stock, did you say?” the officer enquired.

Stone let him know all that was said concerning Morgan’sparentage. Then he continued:

“He has worked hard at the plow, most of his life, andhe is not known in horse-books, but we Vermonters don’ttake much interest in pedigrees. We say, ‘pretty is aspretty does’ and present merit is what we go by, Captain—​notwhat his ancestors did!”

The Maryland gentleman laughed, seeing the point.

“Blood speaks for itself, right here,” Captain Dulaneysaid. “I will wager my new sword that this horse hasthoroughbred blood! So you see your argument aboutpedigree does not hold!”

Morgan waved his tail slightly, in acknowledgment.

“I like the animal,” added the Captain, in his quiet,pleasant way. “I would mount him, sir.”

In ten minutes Morgan was accoutred in the militarytrappings and saddle of an officer of the United StatesArmy. It was with a thrill that he felt the Captainthrow his fine-dressed leg across his back and slip hiscavalry-booted feet into the stirrups—​all the while holdingthe reins in his masterful hand. A mutual confidencewas awakened between the two that was to lastalways.

Morgan, feeling as young as he did ten years before,cantered smoothly off, side-stepping just enough to givehis rider something to do.

Down the hill they went, the horse as sure-footed asa goat, feeling that he had never carried so dashing andgallant a rider nor so congenial a spirit, and right gladwas he to respond to every gentle pressure of the bitor motion of the rein.

At the turn of the trail they came to a stone fence. Athis rider’s suggestion Morgan paused slightly, pulledhimself together, rose in the air and cleared it. Over arushing little stream he went in the same confident, bird-likeway, galloping easily off as he touched the groundon the other side.

The blue sky was reflected in the lake, and the mountainsin New York pierced it, in reality, or reflection,with peaks of green and brown. The air was still andpure and the cool scent of the pines was strong in theirnostrils. The haze of the morning had given place to acrystal clearness and Juniper Island was like a spot ofprecious jade set in a field of turquoise.

They were on the way to the Falls at a smart gallopnow, and what his rider intimated to the horse alongthe bridle-rein gave him courage and love combined withperfect understanding. At a convenient spot theystopped, and Captain Dulaney spoke aloud.

“Ah, my fine fellow!” Morgan flicked his tail in reply,and tossed his mane slightly—​with an up and down motiononce or twice of his crest as was his habit whenspoken to, directly—​“Ah, my fine fellow, this air makesone breathe deeply. There’s no climate like it. Nowonder these Vermonters are giants morally and physically.No wonder the Green Mountain Boys could takeTiconderoga! A handful of men bred in this air areworth all the city-bred officers in the British Army.And forsooth, they proved it! Ha! Ha! If it comesto an attack by water from Canada on the lake, here, wehave a superabundance of trained officers and men.”

He dismounted and spread a map on the ground,weighting the corners with pink and red fragments ofstones picked up at random. Had he known it, thesewere pieces of marble, later to make that locality famous,when the quarries were discovered.

In silence he studied the map, the bridle rein hangingacross his arm. Then he folded it, sprang suddenly intothe saddle and continued his thinking aloud as theystarted off:

“Now if we could be sure of the Vermonters in thiswar, but they seem to think fighting foolish—​and in thisthey may be right, eh, Morgan? New England is in aferment, but we’ve got to stick by the President andfight it out. Although they call it ‘Mr. Madison’s War,’that poor man is the most unwilling participant in it!The thing is to find which way the cat will jump here;that’s my business. These secret emissaries from Englandand Canada may be right here now, rousing theVermonters to join Canada. But may be the sight ofa good old Continental uniform—​God bless it!—​maybring them our way!”

The lake glinted blue in the sunshine, the birds twitteredin the forest, as they passed on slowly.

Suddenly Captain Dulaney addressed the horse gaily:

“Look at that view, Morgan. Shall we let a kingwrest it from us? No, I swear it! This air is likewine. Who would live in towns, say I, with housescrowding, one upon the other, peeping over each other’sheads to see the narrow streets that lie between? NotI, for one. Give me trees and sky, rivers and fields, andthe green country down in Maryland, ‘Where the GreatLloyd sets his Hall.’”

Morgan started. He turned his straight, intelligentface full round and looked at his rider. A smile, quickand magnetic, met his dark, prominent eye. Then a lightflooded his horse mind. No wonder he loved this officer!Had he not won him for Mistress Lloyd so long ago?He remembered all now. From the tip of his tail to hisfine, sharp ears he quivered with happiness. Maybe aftera life-time of waiting he would see her again!

Overhead the sky was cloudless, but suddenly acrossits face came sweeping into view, over-shadowing thewoods for a moment, a dense flock of wild pigeons. TheCaptain leaned forward and patted Morgan’s neck.

“Just pigeons, old man! Is that why you shivered?Or is there something you want to say?”

But Morgan could not answer in words, he could onlyhope and serve. He did wish, however, that CaptainDulaney would not call him “old”! He had years ofusefulness before him yet!

“I wish my sweet wife were here now to enjoy thisview with us!”

Morgan replied with a toss of his head.

“But she is coming!”

Morgan whinneyed, softly, and trembled all over.

“God bless her!” went on the Captain, his blue eyesdeepening to a light, wholly tender, “She would scarceconsent to my coming up here without her. She arguedwith me, the witch, that Mistress Washington had passedthe winter at Valley Forge, and she did not love herGeneral any more than my wife loved her Captain! Itwas a clinching argument, Morgan, my friend, and I hadto promise that she should come when all was ready—​andthere she is waiting in Boston until I send for her.”

Morgan tossed his head, and his tail waved slightly.

“She shall ride you, little horse, for, by my sword,there never was a more delightful, under the saddle.My mind is made up, I shall buy you, old as you are!”

There it was again—​“As old as you are.” Age! whathas age to do with it if the heart and spirit are young?

“As for these Vermonters,” the Captain continued,thinking aloud, and riding on, “they are brave, fine menand they will stand by Ethan Allen’s ideals; if warcomes they will be with us. I’ve felt the pulse of Vermontfrom North to South, and I believe in them inspite of their reserve and non-committal attitude.”

They galloped on over rocky, new-cleared spaces,across streams and fences, and pushed their way slowlythrough underbrush. When they stopped, Dulaneypulled Morgan’s lean head round and caught his bright,pleasant eye. The Captain winked at him with achuckle.

“We’ll win this war yet——”

So there was to be a war! Morgan’s pupils dilated,his nostrils spread.

“Yes, we’ll win this war, as we did the other,” andthe officer nodded his head with conviction. “I was buta lad of ten, Morgan, when we heard of Cornwallis’ surrender,in 1781. ’Twas a crisp autumn day and I wellrecall the shouting and hurrahing, the patriotic acclamationsand glowing ardor of the Americans.

“To-day we have no Washington, no Hamilton, noLa Fayette. We can but wait and see. But to me itseems a foregone conclusion. We have the larger ships,the heavier ordnance, and we are superior in seamanshipand gunnery. Our vessels are few, but equippedthoroughly. Right will prevail—​and we are right,aren’t we, Morgan?”

Having finished his somewhat whimsical remarks, hewheeled his horse once more, and galloped toward RockyPoint where he stopped long—​taking further observationsof lake and country, turning in his saddle and gazingwith thoughtful brow in every direction, scanningthe horizon line, the lake, the streams, the roads.

Before the day was done they had skirted the ruggedcoast and crossed the sand-bar to La Grande Isle. Sogreat was the number of salmon in those days that, asMorgan waded knee-deep in the water among them, theysplashed away from his feet, as if in play.

Squirrels ran over the ground on the island and chattereddown at them from the boughs. Clear and deepthe blue lake lay, the woods coming to the very edgewhere poplars trembled in the clear light and tall,straight white-pines towered like sentinels.

From Island Point they could see Plattsburg Harbor,and here Captain Dulaney again sat for a long timeburied in thought, looking across the wild, dark forestand lake.

At dusk they bent their faces homeward, both horseand rider absorbed in his own meditations until theyreached College Hill.

Early next morning Samuel Stone came to bid theMorgan good-bye, telling him he had been bought byCaptain Dulaney, and that he “was a very lucky horse!”Morgan knew this far better than Stone—​wasn’t MistressDulaney coming, and would he not have the happinessof cantering under her saddle once more?

But she did not come at once. During the fall andwinter of 1812 and 1813, the United States troops arrivedand were settled in the College buildings, nowcalled United States Barracks for the winter.

Captain Dulaney rode Morgan daily and taught himto be a true cavalry horse and to obey bugle calls. Soobedient did he become and so conscientious was he,that, one day when he was attached to a “shay” at thefoot of the hill, he heard the bugle sound “Charge.”He obeyed instantly on the impulse, snapping his hitchrein sharply. Up the hill he “charged” at full speed, theshay rattling on behind! ’Twas not his fault that itwas not shaken into bits! From a colt it had been hisinstinct to obey without question, and certainly, at last,in the service of his country he did not hesitate!

Soldiers, off duty, lounging idly in the shade, rousedthemselves with a great roar of laughter as the old horsecharged toward them. An orderly sprang forward andcaught the bit. Not a strap, not a tug was broken!Every one cheered heartily, for “Old Justin Morgan”had come to be a character at the post and was lovedby all, men as well as officers.

Time passed and still Mistress Dulaney did not come,though every day Morgan looked for the one great, humanlove of his life. He wondered if she rememberedhim—​if she recalled the part he had played in freeingher from the Coxcomb, and winning her the man sheloved.

In the spring of 1813, when the ice broke up, a fleetwas fitted out. Oak timbers, cut on the Winooski, weresawed at the mills, nails and bolts were fashioned out ofhot iron at the forges where even the bellows breathedpatriotism. Masts and spars were tapered and sailsmade. Liberty poles were set up on eminences—​thehigher the pole the stronger the patriotism. Everythingindicated war.

Commodore Macdonough took command of the lakeand naval stores and ammunition arrived from theSouth. All seemed waiting for the call to arms whenan epidemic of lung-fever broke out among the troopsstationed at the barracks.

Captain Dulaney was stricken, and lay ill unto deathat his quarters. Morgan missed him and pined for hiscompany.

A letter was dispatched to Mistress Dulaney, but thedistance to Boston was so great that a man might diebefore the stage went and returned to Burlington. Atlast when the coach rattled up, with a great noise andhurly-burly, to the officer’s quarters and stopped, allknew that Mistress Dulaney was inside, and it chancedthat Morgan stood hitched near-by. The steps werequickly let down and right quickly did she descend.

Morgan recognized her at once; he whinneyed a noteof welcome, but she neither saw nor heard him; she wasin such stress of anxiety.

She was all his memory held her: not so young, butmore sweet, more beautiful and a light as of a halo surroundedher face as they told her the Captain was better.Morgan saw all before she put her little foot tothe ground.

But as she hurried into the house the horse felt old,a sudden darkness fell upon the world, as if a cloud hadobscured the sun.

She had not even seen him!

He hung his head and tears filled his dear, longingeyes. After all these years of waiting and loving—​andshe had not even seen him!

CHAPTER XIX.

MORGAN MEETS HIS LADY AGAIN.

But Captain Dulaney did not die of the “lungfever,” as so many did. He was made for a nobler endand had work yet to do.

The mutterings of war came ever nearer and nearerto Lake Champlain and crowded out all other thoughtsand interests.

Morgan waited two weeks for a sight of his Lady.Nobody came to tell him the news, so he could only hopethe Captain would recover and need to go for an airingafter a while.

One day the orderly, a mannerly youth whom horsesliked, groomed him so carefully that the old horseguessed the airing he had looked forward to was aboutto take place.

He was scarcely able to control his impatience as hestood at the step waiting. He was sure she would seehim this time, and he trembled with longing, and thehope that she had not forgotten him.

She came down the steps slowly, the Captain, a littleweak still, leaning on her arm, yet not entirely for support—​alittle for the joy of laying his thin, white handon her strong, steady one.

At last, as her husband spoke, she raised her eyes.

“This is the horse I’ve written you so much about,my Hollyhock!”

She knew him at once!

“Why, my dear! ’Tis the very horse that won youfor me!” she cried, joyfully; she might forget a person—​hislady—​but never a horse. “Why did you not tell meso before? I have asked so often about him, and’twould have brought me to Vermont before this!”

The Captain smiled.

“I shall be jealous of my charger,” he said, tenderly.

Morgan rubbed his muzzle on Mistress Dulaney’ssleeve and in the laces at her neck, thinking her softSouthern voice the sweetest he had ever heard, evenmore sweet than when she was a maid.

“Ah, dear husband, but for this horse I should be themost unhappy of women instead of the happiest! ’Twashe who won that race so many years ago and gave youto me. I have ever wanted to call him my own!”

“Then you may call him so now, sweet Wife. Fromto-day Morgan is yours.”

At last, at last! Oh, the years of waiting and longing.Oh, the weary hopelessness of some of them at theplow-among men who could not understand and didnot try. At last! He arched his crest and pawed theearth with joy.

“I shall lend him to you sometimes.” She looked ather lord, archly lifting her sweet face to his as theystood very close together. At a soft, sweet sound Morganshowed more spirit.

“‘He paweth in the valley and rejoiceth in hisstrength; he goeth forth to meet the armed men,’”Mistress Dulaney quoted, mockingly, her hand restingon the horse’s face, her cheek against his.

Presently the Captain mounted, lighter by severalpounds than was his wont, and Morgan glided off.

“Take good care of him, Little Horse,” were her partingwords.

Early that summer, when the feeling of victory wasrunning high, the American Sloop of War, “Growler,”was captured by the British gun-boats on the UpperLake. The Americans equipped a small fleet and drovethe enemy back into Canada.

The State Militia, stationed at Plattsburg, was orderedhome in November, by Governor Chittenden, but mostof the officers remained. The privates—​from the first,unwilling to enlist—​were glad enough to return to theirfamilies who needed them sorely. They would muchrather chop and dig at home, they said, having foundnothing to do in Plattsburg but repair the barracks.

Every day Captain or Mistress Dulaney rode Morganout for exercise, and he enjoyed the easy, pleasant lifewith its military atmosphere. His lady visited himevery morning early and gave him many delicious morselsof food, and the old horse seemed to grow youngerday by day. She talked to him of all sorts of interestingthings in tones, so wonderfully sweet, the birds in theGreen Mountains would have died of envy, could theyhave heard them.

Sometimes errands with Captain Dulaney were ofgreat secrecy and importance. One night quite late theywent away toward the North and passed the night at abarn, watching a suspicious locality. As they wereabout to start homeward, the Captain searched carefullyand found a furled flag, lying on a beam. He took itdown and unrolled it, looking for secret signs, but theflag was right enough. It was made of the finest linen,home-spun, and was fifteen feet long by four wide. Inits centre was an eagle perched on a rock, bearing in itstalons a shield with thirteen stripes and some arrows.In his beak was a pine sprig, and over the eagle waspainted “Independence Forever.” The word “Swanton”was painted on it in another hand.

As Captain Dulaney noticed the last word he said tohimself, with relief:

“’Tis well! We’ve nothing to fear. Lieutenant VanSicklen was right. The people in this locality are patriots.He will return this way, perhaps, so I shall putthe flag back with my private mark.”[13]

He made a certain distinguishing mark and laid theflag back on the sill.

A strange event occurred on their way home throughthe darkness.

Suddenly there was a hissing, as of red hot iron thrustinto water, a familiar sound to Morgan who had livedso long near a forge, and then there came a violent explosion.The earth fairly shook, and the horse felt hisrider start in the saddle. He himself was so taken bysurprise that he stopped so sharply his hoofs plowedgreat furrows in the ground.

Then Captain Dulaney spoke, and the sound of hissteady voice quieted him.

“’Tis but a mass of iron fallen from space, old fellow—​ameteor, they call it—​a rare and interesting sightif one happens to be far enough away! Any nearer forus might have made Mistress Dulaney a widow withouta riding horse!” He laughed reassuringly. “We willshow the British a few stars like that at shorter range,pretty soon. What say you?”

Morgan waved his tail.

Next day folk went from everywhere to see the“fallen star,” and wise old women—​who infested everycommunity at that time—​said it was an ill-omen, andmeant victory for the British!

In the spring of 1814, the American Squadron lay inOtter Creek, which, flowing gently toward the lake, affordedsafe anchorage for the vessels. In May as theywere about to quit port, the enemy approached off themouth of the creek with a well-matured plan to “bottlethem up” by sinking two sloops filled with stones in thechannel. But the Americans fired and frightened themoff before they had played their clever trick.

In the middle of August the “Eagle” was launchedand the murmur arose, “the British are gathering on thefrontier.”

On September third began the real excitement. Beforecock-crow the whole place was astir. Morgan,feeling the influence, was scarcely able to eat his breakfast.But when he finally finished, and was led out, thebarracks were alive with soldiers and officers. Morganchamped his bit—​ready to be gone on any errand thatwas needed. Seconds passed slowly, he was so eager tobe off! In a few moments Lieutenant Van Sicklensprang out of a near-by door, and gathering the reins inhis hands swung himself into the saddle.

The old horse was off like a shot toward the goal,wherever it was, his rider close to his neck, talking tohim as a lady-love might, whispering words of encouragementand affection.

They dashed down the hill at such speed that an oldcow, lying comfortably in the road, chewing her morningcud, had the experience of acting as a hurdle. Seeingshe could not possibly rise in time, the young officergave Morgan the signal and over her they went! Whenshe had recovered her stupid senses they were out ofsight.

At last the hopes of the old horse were realized. Hewas serving his country and very soon understood theerrand on which they were bent. He spurned the earth;stone fences stretched across his way; streams had to beforded; now and then a steep declivity appeared, but hewas a “Bay,” and he remembered what they say of abay in the Desert; rough fields, retarding forests, andwide stretches of valley did not discourage him. Hurryingon he found naught but broad, fine happiness. Hewas serving his country!

White with foam he reached Hinesburg and Lieut.Van Sicklen shouted:

“The British are coming!”

Then over his shoulder:

“They have invaded Plattsburg and volunteers arewanted! On to Burlington!”

Every mouth took up the cry.

“On to Burlington, the British are coming!”

Morgan’s nostrils showed red—​but he was just beginningthis wonderful experience, for which he had waitedso long. On, on, to serve his country!

They left the people hurrying into their houses fortheir muskets. Men snatched them from the high mantel-shelvesand started out leaving their plows stuck inthe earth. The women did not weep—​they, too, set out,some doggedly, some eager; they begged extra guns andwent along leaving their kitchen doors open and theirpots hanging from the cranes; they had not forgottenthe Indians—​and that other cry: “The British are coming!”

These were living memories to many. Even the childrenpleaded to go along, for was not the Americanspirit born in them?

And on Morgan and his rider went.

“The British are coming!”

The cry rose and fell and echoed through the mountainsand valleys of Vermont.

At last they reached Montpelier where they were torest the night at the Farmer’s Inn, where Morgan usedto live. But he was so tired he could not revive memoriesof his youth, and lay down on the clean straw torest, almost at once.

He did not know how long he had been sleeping whenhis keen ears were penetrated by the whisper of menoutside the stable door. He sprang to his four feet, suspiciously.

“’Tis the fleetest horse in the state,” said one voice.“Have him out and you will signal General Prevostfrom the Upper Lake to-morrow night!”

“Prevost! a Red-Coat General!” thought Morgan.“They must be spies!”

The door was opened softly a moment later, and aman crept in.

On the instant a rush of air from without swept intoMorgan’s nostrils the unforgotten odor of the Tory Boywhose dog had killed Black Baby, the lamb. No longera boy, he no doubt deserved the kick in accordance withhis increased age and wickedness.

Here surely was the opportunity Allah had been preparingall these years.

Morgan had been standing with his face to the door,but, on recognizing the intruder, he wheeled suddenly,and with a cry, almost human, he delivered the kick ofa lifetime!

Lieutenant Van Sicklen, sleeping near at hand andever on the alert, had been roused by Morgan’s firstmovement and rushed out with drawn sword. Hereached the open door just in time to receive in hisarms the limp form of the Tory spy.

The American officer was not too surprised to grasphim by the collar:

“How, now, sirrah! You would steal my horse, wouldyou? We will soon quiet you and your kind!” Stillholding him firmly—​though the man was unconsciousand unable to stand—​he called, “What, ho! Within! Ihave no time to deal with spies or horse thieves! Comeout and punish this fellow, if he is alive, according toyour Vermont laws before you go to fight his peers!”

Nor did he and Morgan remain to see the fate of theTory spy. It sufficed them to know he was to be dealtwith according to his deserts.

FOOTNOTES:

[13] In December, 1907, a furled flag, covered with dust and dirt,and exactly answering the description of the flag examined byCaptain Dulaney, was discovered on the sill of an old barn onwhat is now known as the Jed Mack Farm, at Swanton Junction,Vermont. The flag was old—​even in 1814—​for there were butthirteen stripes on it, and had been made before Vermont wasadmitted to the Union.

The finding of the flag nearly a century later proves thatLieut. Van Sicklen did not return that way and accounts forthe discovery of the flag so long afterwards.

CHAPTER XX.

THE NAVAL BATTLE.

From Montpelier other messengers were sent in alldirections to warn the farmers, and Lieut. Van Sicklenpushed on to Randolph, Morgan’s old home. Hisformer friends along the way would never have believedit, had they not known his age. Full twenty-five yearsold, he was yet eager, and, hard as the riding had been,not once had he faltered.

Whilst he waited in Randolph, Lieut. Van Sicklen,amidst roars of applause, roused the people to rallyround the flag, and made such a patriotic speech fromthe porch of Dr. Timothy Baylies’ Tavern, that the assembledcrowd was carried away by his enthusiasm andshouted, wildly:

“Down with the British!”

It was a fire of patriotism burning high and clear,lighting the state from North to South.

Presently, on foot, on horseback, in wagons and in“shays,” they swept out into the winding highways andheaded toward Montpelier, where the Government armswere stored, with a great cracking of whips and cheering.

Eighty-five volunteers went from Randolph, with CaptainEgerton Lebbins in command. In a fine fever ofenthusiasm they were as splendid a set of men as Morganhad come across in his journey, showing much heroismand ardor, but their clothes were odd to see, goodnessknows! One thing and another thrown on at random;but not once did it occur to any of them to doubtthe propriety of the strange costumes.

Fortunate ones had entire buff and blue Continentaluniforms, inherited from father or grandfather or onceworn by themselves—​which was a proud boast—​somewere stained darkly, telling the tale of another war.Others had brass buttons hastily sewn on their everydaycoats. Still others had but one button—​a sort ofbadge—​but these were great treasures, for did they notbear the inscription, “Long live our President,” and didthey not have his initials—​G. W.—​on them?

Their arms, when they started out, were as varied astheir coats. Hunting knives, long muskets, spears madeat the forge, of scraps of iron tied to oak staffs with rawhide, Indian arrow heads stuck into short hickory handles,and such like.

But after all, the wonder was that they could get togetherany sort of suggestive garb, or cared to—​NewEngland being in such a fever of dissatisfaction over thewar.

Their mission completed, Lieut. Van Sicklen and Morganreturned to Burlington, and the day following this,Captain Dulaney rode his horse down to the wharf and,with many other officers, boarded the boat for Plattsburg.

The leaky old sloop, used to convey Captain Lebbins’“heroes” across, was washed up on Juniper Island in astorm of rain, and great was the anxiety concerning thebrave fellows. A life boat was hurriedly manned andsent to their rescue—​instead of finding the soldiers perishingproperly, in true shipwreck fashion, the life-savingparty found them celebrating their patriotism withMedford rum, high and dry on the island! “The wreckof Juniper Island” was the subject of many a song andstory for long years in Randolph.

Commodore Macdonough’s fleet was anchored offPlattsburg with fourteen vessels and eighty-six guns.On shore could be heard from the deck of his flagship,“Saratoga,” the Commodore giving orders, in that cool,calm voice—​so loved by Decatur and Bainbridge—​thevoice that indicated at once courage, humanity and confidence.Nor were these qualities at all disturbed by therumor that a “host was advancing down the lake tocrush the Yankees!”

The “host” was Captain George Downie, on his flagship,“Confiance,” with a flotilla of sixteen vessels carryingninety-two guns.

It was now the eve of a great naval engagement—​thetenth of September, eighteen hundred and fourteen—​thestory of which has been told over and over for generations.

Near Captain Dulaney’s headquarters, Morgan sleptlittle that night; across the lake Burlington throbbedwith flaring lights, and the town about him was wideawake. He dreamed waking dreams of his ancestor,the Turk, ridden by Captain Byerly, in King William’swars, one hundred and twenty-five years before—​theByerly Turk, he was called—​who had seen the gloriesof Londonderry and Enniskillan.

Of another ancestor, too, he dreamed, the WhiteTurk, ridden by Oliver Cromwell; and now he, Morgan,was taking part in a war under the saddle of hisLady’s soldier—​for this reason an even greater personagethan Captain Byerly or Oliver Cromwell!

Long before dawn on the eleventh, his owner rodehim out to watch the maneuvers on the lake from aneminence, for it now seemed that Morgan was not totake an active part in this battle.

Commodore Macdonough had drawn his fleet up intwo lines, forty yards apart, and as daylight came, andthe morning advanced, the force weighed anchor andmoved forward in a body. The wind was fair and ateight bells all was ready for the approaching enemy—​notmore than a league away.

As the British ships came nearer the Americans swungtheir broadsides to bear—​an intense stillness fell whoseinfluence extended to the watchers on land.

The “Saratoga” was silent—​waiting—​every man athis post, every nerve at the highest tension—​some infear, some in restraint, some in suspense—​but every earastrain against the rending of that awful silence.

And suddenly it was rent!

A cock, escaped from a coop, having mounted a gun-slide,on the “Saratoga,” stretched his neck, flapped hiswings, and crowed!

His defiance of the British was answered with a rousingcheer—​the strain was broken—​the depressed revived!

It was an omen presaging Victory, the Americanssaid.

Commodore Macdonough, himself, fired the first gunfrom the flagship. Death shrieked through the air, uglyand resistless; the ball fairly mowed down the men as itwhizzed the entire deck-length of the “Confiance.”

The men on the Saratoga shivered as the smoke liftedand they saw the devastation and the gallant enemyadvance, without reply. Then at the distance of a quarterof a mile Captain Downie anchored and the otherBritish vessels came to.

The Americans continued to pound away—​still the“Confiance” did not respond until secured. Then, withstartling suddenness she seemed to point all her guns atthe “Saratoga” and become a solid sheet of flame. Theair rocked with the blazing of the cannon.

This broadside, from point-blank range, carried destructionto its target. It came terribly, and in turnsang its death-song to the Americans through the morningair.

When the eddying smoke cleared it seemed to CommodoreMacdonough that he saw half his crew lying onthe deck, stunned, wounded or killed by this one discharge—​fortywas the actual number, out of his twohundred and twelve men. Hammocks were cut topieces in the netting and bodies cumbered the deck. Butpresently the “Saratoga” recovered and resumed her animatedfire, steady as ever.

Fifteen minutes after the enemy anchored an Englishvessel was captured, and on Crab Island where therewas a hospital and a battery of one gun, the “invalids”took a second.

Sometimes the galleys of the two navies would liewithin a boat’s hook of each other and the sailors, notliking such close quarters, would rise from the sweeps,ready to spring into the water. It was close and hot—​thislittle naval battle—​but gradually, as the guns wereinjured, the cannonading ceased.

Morgan and Captain Dulaney galloped from place toplace for a better view, the old horse prancing at the terrificsound of the firing, never having seemed so full ofspirit; constantly he raised his head to sniff the smokeof battle-as if it were a call from his kins-steeds. Theclatter of his own hoofs beat loud in his ears; his heartwas like to burst with patriotic ardor at the flying flags,the quick orders of the officers, the martial noises, andthe sense of peril. He was mad with excitement.

Suddenly from the men on shore burst a cheer, loudand high in exultation; the feeling of pride ran hot inMorgan’s veins, he tasted all the sweets of conquest,and raising his head high, added his voice to theirs ina great cry of triumph.

And this was Victory! It was worth—​that one moment—​hiswhole long life of hard work and painful partings!

CHAPTER XXI.

DOWN HILL.

For days after the naval battle Morgan seemed rejuvenated,ready to begin life all over; life, with itschanges of owners, its partings, its hard work—​butwithal, its friendships, its moments of supreme joy andexaltation.

It might be well to end the story of old Justin Morganas he stood there—​so fine in his spirit and ambition—​watchingthe fight from the hill commanding the lake;but one or two more incidents remain to be related whichwill show still greater powers of endurance and patiencein his long, hard, but nevertheless, noble life.

On the heels of the American victory came the newsthat the Dulaneys had been ordered back to West Point,and would not take Morgan with them. It was a bitterparting for the old horse and need not be dwelt upon.All three realized fully, they should never meet again.

From Burlington Morgan was sold to Joel Goss andJoseph Rogers, and taken to Claremont, New Hampshire.Here his stable was at the ferry, on the ConnecticutRiver, and the sight of the stream recalled hisyouth.

He dreamed sweet dreams of colthood; visions of hismother, of Caesar, of Black Baby, came to him and hewas content.

But, alas, this pleasant, peaceful life ended full soon,and, in 1816 he was sold to a man by the name of Langmaid,who drove the freight-stage from Windsor toChelsea, a distance of nearly two hundred miles. Thusthe brave old animal, at twenty-seven years of age, wasignominiously thrust into harness company with fiveother lazy, ill-bred brutes, who dawdled along the roadwith slack tugs and made the patient Morgan do mostof the pulling.

For the first time in his long life the ambitious horseadmitted a feeling of discouragement into his heart; hewas ill-fed, never rubbed down, and life seemed utterlyhopeless.[14]

That was the year men called “Eighteen-hundred-and-starved-to-death,”and throughout the entire summerthere was not one warm, sunshiny day.

Growing wet with their intolerably toilsome exertionsover the slippery, tumbling roads, with the wind howlingand the trees bending low about them, the horseswould become chilled to the bone, with often nothingbut hemlock boughs to eat. They panted and strainedas they climbed, and the lumbering stage, with itsheavy load of freight, had to be hauled over the tops ofthe almost perpendicular hills and mountains, at thecrack of a long, keen whip in the hands of a mercilessdriver; every moment they were in danger of crashingover an embankment. It took steady nerve to do this,and poor, proud Morgan, who had never before felt awhip, chafed under the treatment and the remarks ofpeople who had known him in his prime.

He almost fretted himself to death, he was heartsick,and a leaden weariness of battling came over him; hewas in a pitiable plight.

That year crops were all killed, famine threatened,and once more Vermont drank the cup of desolation toits dregs. Good church people, with their childrenstarving, cursed their God.

On one occasion the stage passed the farm of a mandriven to desperation by the conditions—​no crops—​nofood. He did not hear the stage coming—​the horses’feet fell noiselessly on the soundless road, knee-deep—​theheavy wheels half hidden—​in mud. There he stood,his Bible in his hand, and in a loud voice he pouredforth a torrent of threats “to burn the Book if his cropswere killed by the threatening frost.”

Mother Nature had made her plans, and did notchange them for such impious railings.

When the stage passed, a few days later, neighbors’tongues buzzed with Diah Brewster’s blasphemy, for hehad kept his word!

No one could suggest a punishment to fit the crime,although there were stocks and branding for lesser misdemeanors,such as drunkenness and lying.

Unfortunately, the stage had to go on before thedriver found out what decision the Selectmen arrived atas to proper and appropriate penalty.

Soon after this Joseph Rogers chanced to be in Chelseawhen the stage coach drew up. Hearing his familiarvoice, Morgan—​wretchedly miserable and homesick—​gavea friendly and anxious whinney. Rogers wouldnever have recognized him otherwise, but as he lookedinto the horse’s kind, gentle face he knew it was his oldfriend. He started in surprise at the forlorn appearanceof the once beautiful horse, now friendless and forgotten.

That evening Morgan was bought back by Joel Gossand Joseph Rogers, who took him again to Claremont,where he soon regained strength and flesh. His coattook on such a gloss that after a while they began to“spruce” him up for the Randolph Fair. And at twenty-eightyears of age!

The fair proved to be a very fine one and there werebread-stuffs, pies and quilts of every description, linenand woolen woven by the women, and the men exhibitedtheir fine horses, cows and pigs.

Morgan’s stable was as popular as ever and prettysoon the judges gave him a blue ribband, though therewere many younger horses in his class who arched theirnecks and attracted attention.

The chief topic of conversation at the fair was theapproaching visit of President James Monroe, who wascoming to view the scene of the great naval battle atBurlington. Morgan heard the talk outside his stall.

“They tell me the Morgan goes up to Burlington forthe President to ride in the big parade,” said a stableboy.

“Yes,” some one replied, “Joel Goss wants to sell thehorse and thinks with the reputation of having been riddenby a President he’ll get a better price!”

“That sounds reasonable—​if Morgan was younger.”

“Younger? Why, man, this horse’ll never grow old!Wait and take a look at him.”

The “old” horse was led out, bold and ambitious, hiseyes bright, his ears pointing, his spirit fresh as ever!He stepped smartly about, supple and sound as a horseof ten, at the most. It is the spirit that makes the horseand there was a springiness of youth in his gait. Wellhad he known—​this wise animal—​that every trait andcharacteristic he developed in himself would be his giftto posterity! His feeling of responsibility to futuregenerations was great.[15]

A week later the Morgan was led to the Tavern entrancein Burlington. He stepped nobly, and understoodall the paces and evolutions of a showy parade-horse.

At the door of the Tavern appeared a man, noticeablefor that dignified and courtly bearing that marked theColonial gentleman. He was attired in a costume ofthe latest cut—​somewhat new to the Vermonters.

He raised his hat and bowed to the right and left ascheer after cheer rose from the people who recognizedtheir President.

Accompanied by General Joseph G. Swift, he starteddown the steps.

Suddenly over the face of President James Monroethere passed a look of keen interest, followed by one ofintense admiration.

He had caught sight of Morgan, and his eye, unerringin its judgment of horseflesh, was arrested at once byhis vigorous and fearless style. He turned to a groupof officials.

“I see, gentlemen,” he said, in a tone of genuine appreciation,“that Vermont can produce a horse worthy ofher heroes!”

A moment later and he had thrown his leg over theback of the proudest horse in America!

THE END.

Morgan passed the remainder of his life in the kindcare of Mr. Bean, of Chelsea. He died from the effectsof a kick from another horse, in 1821, at the advancedage of thirty-two years.

Justin Morgan | Project Gutenberg (6)

Painted from life by Ford Attwood, N. Y.

ENTERPRISE


FOOTNOTES:

[14] Editor American Horse Breeder:—​I am an old man, eighty-three,this month, and seeing an article in your last in praise ofthe Morgan Horse, I want to add a word of gratitude for theirnoble service done me as a stage-proprietor on the Fourth NewHampshire Town-pike; as livery man and farmer…. Forendurance, intelligence and as trappy drivers, the Morgans haveno equals. To handle six or eight horses on a stage-coach overhills—​without accident—​looks to me wonderful now, for brakeswere not known in those days. I sometimes think it could nothave been done without the Morgan horses, for their superior intelligencewas often displayed in cases of danger—​like running onicy, sidling roads, where every tug was needed, and the horseson the run, to prevent the coach from falling off the bank! Ihave often done this and seen others do it, and accidents werefew. These horses seemed to know what was wanted and understoodthe danger as well as the driver. It was sometimes no easymatter to carry the mails through blinding sleet and heavy drifts,but I never had a Morgan horse look back to refuse me. Theyalways faced the blast. If a double trip had to be made theMorgans always did it and the long-jointed, over-reaching, interferingspan of some other breed was kept in the barn.

Yours,
J. C. Cremer, Hanover, N. H.
American Horse Breeder, 1892.

[15] “I see horses every day with, perhaps, a thirty-second part ofthe blood of Old Justin Morgan, but there it is, still predominating;there is the Morgan still to be seen plainly. Every closeobserver, every discerning judge of horses always admits thistendency of his blood.”—​From an article by James D. Ladd, Wallace’sMonthly, July, 1882.

POSTWORD.

The stable of the late George Houstoun Waring, ofSavannah, at Annandale Stock Farm, where the firstGeorgia Morgans were raised, consisted of four Morgansbrought from Vermont and New Hampshire. They were,Enterprise, No. 423, chestnut with flaxen mane and tail;Paragon Black Hawk, the handsomest horse I eversaw, black with white star, very showy in tandem; Clive,beyond compare in Morgan perfection, for whom, at fouryears of age Mr. Waring refused $4,000; Bay Comet,perfect in form and disposition, dark with black points.There were fifty mares, nearly all Morgans. The finestof these was Rosalie Morgan, from Vermont. She wasexhibited many years at the Georgia State Fairs, and ateach would take the prizes for the best brood mare, bestmare with colt at her side, and best trotting mare. Whenshe appeared in these three classes no other mare stoodany chance. Finally she was ruled out. She had nineteencolts, two of which I know sold for $600 each.Rosalie died at thirty-two years of age.

I bought from Mr. Waring a Bay Comet colt, daughterof Amanda Morgan, and named her Jeannie Dean.Jeannie was like a member of my family for thirty-oneyears. She was the perfect type in character and form.

Frank, a grandson of Enterprise, one of the laterand best known Morgans was owned and trotted byWilliam Henry Stiles, in 2:18¼; he inherited all the finetraits of “Old Justin Morgan.”

Annandale had a half-mile track, and every equipmentfor the care and comfort of this transplanted race.

The farm was situated in Habersham Co., in a luxuriantrolling valley of the beautiful mountainous section ofNortheast Georgia; a section almost exclusively occupiedby the summer estates of the wealthy rice and cottonplanters of the Low Country.

J. W. Bryan.

Dillon, Georgia, September, 1911.

Transcriber’s Note

Footnotes were renumbered sequentially and weremoved to the end of the chapter. Obvious printing errors, such asreversed order, missing or partially printed letters and punctuation, were corrected.Jargon, dialect, obsolete and alternativespellings were not changed. Five misspelled words were corrected:

  • “confusel” to “confused”
  • “again” to “against”
  • “afterenoon” to “afternoon”
  • “corroberated” to “corroborated”
  • “laugher” to “laughter”

The following were changed:

  • “them” to “him” … as Gipsey told him they were inevitable.
  • “be” to “he” … Scarcely had he begun …
  • Added word “to” … push the cover to one side …

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74814 ***

Justin Morgan | Project Gutenberg (2025)
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