[Illustration:
Modelled by Roger Noble Burnham.
“… THE FEEL OF HER CHEEK AGAINST HIS!”]
JUSTIN MORGAN
FOUNDER OF HIS RACE
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
[Illustration]
THE SHAKESPEARE PRESS
114-116 E. 28th STREET
NEW YORK
1911
Copyright, 1911, by
Eleanor W. Burnham.
TO
THE MEMORY OF
MY FATHER.
[Illustration:
photograph by E. D. Johnston, Savannah.
ANNANDALE HOUSE]
FOREWORD.
The establishment of an historic basis for this little romance was
fraught with many difficulties, owing to the great divergence in
statement and opinions to be found in regard to the life and origin
of JUSTIN MORGAN. The author was obliged to select from a mass of
contradictory material that which most nearly conformed with the
purpose and continuity of the story.
Therefore, if any find the _history_ not to his way of thinking
she begs him to realize that it is, after all, but a detail which
she hopes may be compensated for by the manner in which she has
endeavored to bring out all those noble characteristics for which the
FOUNDER OF HIS RACE was famous.
In the frontispiece, modelled by Roger Noble Burnham, the portrait
of Mistress Lloyd was posed for by Miss Fifi Willis, of Columbia,
Missouri, to whom the author 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, OF
MARYLAND 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 HE
ACCOMPLISHED IT 67
X. IN WHICH “TRUE” BECOMES “JUSTIN
MORGAN” 72
XI. MORGAN TRIES CONCLUSIONS WITH THE
COXCOMB AND HIS FRIENDS 77
XII. OLD GREY TELLS PIONEER TALES 83
XIII. THE MORGAN GOES TO MONTPELIER TO
LIVE 87
XIV. MORGAN MAKES A TRIP TO BOSTON 95
XV. FOR MISTRESS LLOYD, OF MARYLAND 103
XVI. IN WHICH MORGAN IS KNOWN AS THE
GOSS 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 been touched upon by various
writers who have given us glimpses into this realm of thought, but
it remained for the author of JUSTIN MORGAN, FOUNDER OF HIS RACE,
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 in obscurity_ until
recently, yet he became the sire of the most famous breed of horses
in America.
Only those who have lived with horses, as I have--out of doors and in
my studio--learn to know them as distinct beings, as varied in their
make-up and development as the human kind, affected by the same laws
and influences that stimulate or smother _our_ mental growth.
I dare not tell all I know to be true about the intelligence and
sagacity of our horse friends, for fear of having my balance of mind
subjected to doubt; but I am quite ready to believe all that this
author tells us of equine feelings and faithfulness, for she has been
prompted to relate this little tale of OLD JUSTIN MORGAN through love
and intimate acquaintance with his descendants.
The author’s father was the first to introduce the Morgan horse into
the State of Georgia--in 1858--when he purchased the celebrated
Enterprise, G.G.G.G. son of JUSTIN MORGAN. Later he took out many
others--all of whom made his stock farm, Annandale, famous.
My own inherited associations with Vermont brought me into relation
with Morgan horses in childhood, when I listened to tales of their
wonderful powers of endurance, strength and intelligence, which
maturer years have never made me doubt.
The early Morgan was the best all-round, general-purpose
horse ever produced. They were highly valued, and New England
breeders--especially the Vermonters--kept the blood pure by
breeding in parallel lines and then inbreeding, by which means they
established a fixed type that has and will reproduce itself and
maintain its characteristics for generations.
For a period of sixty years the Vermonters bred nothing but Morgans,
and during the Civil War Vermont was one of the few places where
horses could be obtained. They proved so efficient for cavalry
purposes that the State was almost stripped of them. It is well known
that the best mounted regiments were on Morgan horses.
Their reputation was such that after the war the West Point Academy
was furnished with none but Morgans, until about twenty-five years
ago the Western horse has been supplied as a substitute, greatly to
the detriment of the service.
Following the depletion made in 1861-65 came the popularity of the
Hambletonian horse to lead the Vermonters into untried experiments of
doubtful value. The result was that, by 1890, the pure Morgan horse
was found to be the exception, and the few breeders who realized what
had been lost began to cherish the remnants of an almost lost race,
and prizes were offered for the best Morgans.
Mr. Joseph Battell, upon whose investigations this author has founded
her historic narrative of the first Morgan horse, gathered with
infinite pains all the pedigrees he could find and established The
Morgan Horse Register, which is now accepted as the authority.
In 1907 the Morgan horse-breeding work of the United States
Government received a great impetus when Mr. Battell presented to the
Department of Agriculture four hundred acres of fine land lying two
miles from Middlebury, Vermont, now known as the Morgan Horse Farm,
and equipped with farmhouse, stables, barns, etc., to which were
removed all the horses from the Vermont Agricultural Experimental
Station, near Burlington.
The Morgan horse has always been noted for his longevity, retaining
his spirit and vigor in extreme old age. They are free from almost
every species of disease, showing their soundness of constitution.
They mature early, and are easily kept, because they are very hardy.
To-day they show the traits of OLD JUSTIN MORGAN in their docility
and symmetry of form, and this Founder of his race, according to
Mr. Battell, was but six generations of English breeding from the
original Arab stock, including Byerly Turk and Godolphin Arabian.
The Morgan horse has quietly won all the honors a grateful people can
bestow upon him, and we are glad to greet 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-tale as if it
were a mere fairy-tale? It is founded on the story of a real horse
in a setting of incidents related in the histories of the various
localities in which he lived. Where possible, history has been so
closely followed as to use the real names of those vigorous pioneers
who helped to make it.
And so, upon a _certain_ time--
In 1789,[1] when there were but thirteen stars on the American flag,
and George Washington was the newly-made President, near Springfield,
Massachusetts, a colt was born, a colt destined to become the founder
of the finest breed of horses ever known in America.
A wide, lush pasture on the gently-sloping bottom land, through which
the Connecticut River winds its way 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 beauty of later years, he romped
near his mother’s protecting heels or rested in her shadow.
His merry, laughing companion was a brook which flowed down to the
river; he played along its willow-fringed banks, racing with the
beckoning waters until out of breath; then, hurrying back to his
mother through the gathering dusk, he would return with her to their
pleasant stable in the barnyard of Silas Whitman.
His developing colt-nature expanded, day by day, to the beauties and
interests about him. He loved the twinkling waters, the overhanging
trees, the ferns spiralling among dark-green shadows; the delicate
scent of violets, peeping between moss-covered stones, delighted his
sensitive nostrils. He loved the birds, fluttering and swaying on
boughs and chirping soft, sweet notes. In response to all Nature his
small-pointed ears pricked and quivered. He blew his warm breath for
fun on butterflies and bees, as they fussed over dew-wet blossoms,
but swerved aside, with trembling nostrils, at the strident cry of a
jay, waiting in the shadow for _his_ chance of a practical joke!
The hoot of an owl, the bark of a fox, the crashing of a squirrel
through the branches overhead, would make him scamper to his mother’s
side, panting and excited.
These were his baby fears; his real and lasting antipathy was to
dogs; the distant howling of one seemed to fill him with terror;
thunderstorms, too, made him nervous and, so impressible was he to
these, he could tell, two days in advance, that one was coming; only
much urging could prevail upon him to leave the security of his
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, not to shy, not to kick and never
to be taken by surprise. He was happy and care-free then, for he did
not have to wear hard straps, called harness, nor draw heavy loads,
nor wear iron shoes; and his bare, sensitive hoofs soon learned to
tell the difference between safe and dangerous ground. His sense
of smell was singularly acute and standing close to his mother’s
side--that she might better brush the flies from both, with her long,
useful tail--he learned to distinguish poisonous from wholesome weeds.
Master Whitman called him True Briton, 2d, for his celebrated father,
_True Briton_, but the double name was soon shortened to the very
appropriate one of “True.” And, for convenience, we shall speak of
his mother as Gipsey.
Gipsey was one of those mothers, unknown to history, but to whose
early influence her son possibly owed much of his success in later
life. Sometimes it was necessary for her to reprove him; she nipped
him sharply, if he were playful at the wrong time, or kicked too
strongly in fun; but she never had to admonish him twice about
anything on account of his remarkable memory.
One day, when she had to correct him, and was conscious of 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 some of the strongest
friendships of his life were for women; he found them ever generous
with maple sugar and the goodies for which he quickly learned to
whinney at their kitchen windows. They were more appreciative, too,
and did not expect him to perform miracles, as men did who set him
tasks that taxed every nerve and muscle.
Early each morning Silas Whitman came to the barnyard to play with
and train the colt, and from the beginning the little creature showed
marvellous characteristics.
Never did True forget his first sight of Man! At that time--being
quite new-come into the world--he did not know the ways of different
animals, and thought Master Whitman very curious as he walked about
on his hind legs! The small colt wondered if he would have to do the
same when he grew older and his spindly legs grew stronger. He did
not fear the friendly man-creature who played so gently,--little by
little training him to obey and afterwards rewarding him with a bit
of maple sugar. A kind word and a pat was always given to Gipsey,
too, and mother and son very soon began to watch for their master’s
coming, giving him welcome, with little whinneys, and throaty neighs,
when they heard his cheery whistle.
When True’s third molar came he had made the acquaintance of a
halter. Later in life he came to see that the conveniences of a
halter cannot be taught too early. He found out uses for his, all by
himself; one was that he could manage to throw the rein over hay that
was too high in the rack to reach comfortably, and thus pull it down
to an easy height. His mother thought this very ingenious and praised
him, which pleased the little fellow very much.
When the first molar of his permanent teeth came he had been taught
all about a bridle and bit--things he never liked but made the best
of, as Gipsey told him they were inevitable.
When there were errands in the village Silas would hitch Gipsey up
to the “shay” and allow True to trot alongside for exercise and
experience. He enjoyed these little jaunts under the giant elms that
bordered the street, carpeted with a patchwork of sifting sunshine
and cool shadow.
Over garden fences he could see green, succulent box-hedges and one
day, when he found a gate open, he trotted boldly in to get a taste!
Scarcely had he begun to nibble when a dog dashed round the corner of
the house, a boy at his heels. When the latter caught sight of the
intruder he gave a whoop and urged the dog to nip at True’s feet.
The colt, startled, made a quick movement of self-protection with
his hard little heels and struck the dog on the head, effectually
silencing his bark and rolling him over in the dirt.
A rock hit the colt’s side, but he did not tarry; excitedly, he
plunged out of the open gate and raced down the road after his
mother, now full half mile away. The odor 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 and confided that for untold
generations dogs had been the sworn enemies of his family.
“It _may_ be possible for a boy, occasionally, to be polite and
gentle; I do not know,” mewed the cat. “But as for dogs! Well, you
must unsheath your claws and arch your back on sight!”
Caesar was an independent cat of wide experience and had travelled
and lived in many barns; his opinion, therefore, had weight with
True. One day, whilst rubbing against the colt’s leg, in his
affectionate way, he remarked that if it had not been for Gipsey and
True he would long since have returned to his last barn-home, where
the mice had a sweeter flavor on account of a careless housewife who
often left her cheese-box open.
“Besides,” he added, strutting about and waving his tail with
careless dignity, “there is a very nice tortoiseshell pussy waiting
there for me!”
“But, do you know the way back?” asked True, interested and 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 who put 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-white calves who romped in a way that
entertained but almost drove Caesar crazy. Before them he would flee,
round and round, instead of getting out of their way at once!
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 fresh in the minds of
all; the War of the Revolution had been over but a short eight years
and the name “Red-Coat” still had an ominous sound. Gipsey, being
an American mother, taught her son to hate the British and told him
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! That Caesar did not think much of the game was
obvious as he dashed wildly at a tree and running up its trunk sat
spluttering at them, his fur on end, his tail straight in the air.
Being interrupted by Silas,--for daily exercise and practise in
the arts of being bitted and led about--never annoyed the colt.
The calves and Caesar watched these performances, furtively, and
wondered when their turns would come; True always told them the fun
he had and took care to mention the subsequent reward of maple sugar.
For a short time a gentle pigeon came and sat between the young
horse’s ears and cooed, softly, whilst he munched at his manger. This
was agreeable to the sociable colt, but he was puzzled to notice
that the bird did not like his other friend, the cat. True could see
how tactfully Caesar tried to win the affections of the pigeon, even
reaching out a paw to pat him sometimes.
One day his feathered friend did not come to the stable at the usual
time and when the cat sauntered in that afternoon, with a look of
keen content on his face, and a feather in his whiskers, True asked
if he had seen the pigeon.
Caesar had not, of course!
He added, however, as he placidly washed the feather from his face,
that “birds often flew away and did not return!” His expression was
so sincere and sympathetic that the colt was no little comforted.
In spite of this treachery, Caesar was really fond of True, and
brought him, from time to time, tokens of his affection in the
way of delicacies--rats and mice he had caught in his stealthy
rounds--sometimes a chicken’s foot or a fish’s head from the kitchen.
It was difficult for True to refuse these cat-dainties without
hurting Caesar’s feelings, until he hit upon the clever expedient of
pulling out a mouthful of delicious fodder from his rack and offering
it in his turn to the cat!
One day the colt boasted to the cat that he “could see in the dark.”
Caesar purred, contemptuously, washing his face the while.
“That, my friend,” he said, “is a mere trifle, hardly worth bragging
about! Now, if you could but speak the human language, then, indeed,
would I wave my tail and meow, ‘Hail, Master!’”
True was abashed, but said:
“Nay, my mother says speech is but a vain and doubtful good,
especially in women!”
To this sally the cat had no reply, both he and Gipsey had 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 two romped and played together, much as
human children might. For the timid little creature True came to have
a deep attachment; he liked the feel of the warm little body against
his leg. No doubt they exchanged ideas about things of interest as
they listened to the brook, singing happily of woods and meadows
through which it had run on its way to the river.
This sweet friendship lasted many days, but it was destined to end in
a tragedy--one that must be related as it bore so directly upon the
sudden awakening of some of the traits in the colt’s character.
On the edge of a near-by forest there was a rude hut in which dwelt
a family of outlaws who lived on their neighbors and left honest
dealing to others. Round about the countryside it was whispered they
were “Tories,” and Gipsey told True the evil odor borne on the breeze
from that direction was sufficient assurance that this was so; the
outlaws were, indeed, British, and the wildest crew that ever stole a
horse or fired a haystack!
One day, as True stood wrapt in thought beside the stream, admiring
the courage that made it sing as happily in sunshine as in shadow, on
dark days as on bright, Black Baby, as the lamb was called, came from
the other side of the pasture and rubbed against his leg. Seeing in
a moment that the colt was preoccupied, the lamb whisked away to wait
for the usual whinney of invitation.
The Tory hut showed clear in the morning sunlight and, absently, a
moment later the colt glanced that way. To his astonishment he saw
the youngest boy, a ne’er-do-well who had stolen pumpkins and apples
from his neighbors all his life, unloose a lean, gaunt dog and start
towards the pasture.
This young fiend was, oddly enough, named William Howe, quite enough
in itself to set an American by the ears! True recalled in a flash
all his mother had told him of the British General of the same
name.[2]
“How, now,” he thought, “why comes the young robber this way?”
Black Baby continued to frisk about, trying to divert True from his
serious mood. He sprang into the air and tossed his little head,
cutting all manner of capers, but the colt did not seem inclined to
join him in play.
William Howe climbed to the top of the stone fence and, balancing
himself adroitly, gazed around as if to locate any possible mischief.
The dog sprang nimbly over and, yelping, ran after an innocent rabbit
that bounded across the pasture like an India rubber ball, his short
pennant making an almost unbroken line of white over the green grass
as he fled before his enemy. Luckily he reached the opposite fence 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 this very dog, but the
lamb, having known only love and kindness all his little life,
forgot, and frolicked gaily towards him!
William Howe cried out in delight, “Sick him, Cornwallis!”
The cosset lamb stood an easy mark for the dog and in an instant lay
gasping on the ground, the blood flowing from a horrid wound in his
throat. His sobbing breath found an echo in True’s heart and for the
first time the colt lost control of himself.
Overcome with a thirst for vengeance, and, screaming as only a horse
does when the strait is desperate, he plunged 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 stamped the body of
the wicked beast into the earth, crushing bones as if they had been
straws! Furiously he bit, and finally caught the limp carcass in his
strong teeth and threw it high in the air. For the moment he was a
demon and sought, savagely, for more ways to wipe the remains out of
existence!
Suddenly he remembered William Howe who stood at a distance, pelting
him with stones. Uttering another fierce cry he turned upon the boy,
baring his teeth hideously between his firm lips.
Howe made for the fence, where the desperate rabbit had sought cover,
and scrambled over, thinking to be safe on the other side; he did not
know the colt was descended from the “birds of the desert!”
True was not even _aware_ of a barrier! As if he had wings he soared
over it, doubling his hind-feet close under his body a little to one
side.
A tree was all that saved the boy’s life. Swinging up by a
low-hanging branch, with the agility of a cat, he found himself out
of breath and out of reach of the colt’s gleaming teeth. From wide,
scarlet nostrils the hot and excited breath of the maddened animal
reached his bare feet.
The Tory scent that came down to True only increased his anger, but
not being able to reach the boy, he resolved that the kicking he owed
him could be postponed--for years, if necessary--but some day, _some
day_, it would be delivered! Furthermore--he would kick nothing until
that day arrived and he met this boy again on level ground!
How he kept his vow we shall see later.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] According to Joseph Battell. Encyclopedia Britannica
says 1793.
[2] In 1776, Sir William Howe commanded an army of 55,000
men in an effort to put down “the wicked rebellion.”