TRUE’S FIRST HARD WORK, AND HOW HE ACCOMPLISHED IT.
Upon a hill at Randolph Centre perched a little store where the
farmers gathered in cold weather to warm themselves with Medford rum,
a common enough drink in those days, to express lavish opinions as to
political affairs of the young nation, so lately separated from her
Mother Country, or to discuss more intimate local business.
Master Morgan drank little, being more inclined to quiet study than
sociability, but his way led past the store and he often stopped to
hear the news. There were no newspapers in those days, and all news
came by letter or word-of-mouth of the stage-drivers.
Whilst waiting outside for his owner True made pleasant acquaintances
among the horses who also stood awaiting their riders.
A grey mare, very old, very wise and very strong in her convictions,
whom he often met, told him many mane-raising stories of Indian
days--so recently passed through--and the more his wide-set ears
pointed and the more his dark prominent eyes grew eager the better
the old pioneer liked it.
One of her strange tales was how she discovered her master,
Experience Davis, after he returned from his two years’ captivity
with the Indians.
One day, she told True, as she stood quietly near Davis’ hut,
nibbling lazily among the stumps and stones of the new-cleared field
to get the last blades of grass and weeds, she heard a frightful
sound approaching.
She thrilled with horror!
Davis, hoeing, hard by, also heard and dashed frantically into
his hut, closing the door and barring it securely--right well
did everyone of the time know what those dreadful war-whoops and
blood-curdling yells foreboded!
Old Grey threw back her head and sniffed for a better scent with
red, comprehending nostrils. Then, as a band of painted, half-naked
savages, brandishing their tomahawks, rushed from the forest, she
snorted and fled--her sparse tail high in the air, her heart stricken
with fear.
On an eminence afar, she stopped and saw the wretches burst open the
hut-door and drag her struggling master out. Binding him tightly, and
securing everything that might be of use, they set fire to the hut
and disappeared into the forest with war-whoops, taking Davis with
them.
Old Grey waited sadly on the river-bank until hunger and loneliness
induced her to return. Alas, the ruin that met her eyes!
A neighbor who had escaped the massacre of that day found her,
wandering about in despair, and, thinking his friend Experience must
have been burned in his hut or scalped, took the old mare to share
such life as the pioneers of that day had to endure. When he went to
live in Hanover, Old Grey went along, too.
One fine sunny day two years later, as she stood hitched in the old
Meeting House yard, she felt a thrill, her heart began suddenly to
beat faster, she looked around, disturbed in spirit for some strange,
unknown reason.
At last she saw a man crossing the yard, and a moment later
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 going on when she
repeated her greeting, anxiously. At that he looked at her, sharply
and curiously. Involuntarily he answered, with his old familiar
whistle.
At sound of this Old Grey was so overcome with joy that she snapped
her hitch-rein with a quick jerk, and trotted right up to him!
He was so pale and thin from long captivity that she would hardly
have known him by sight, alone; it was his scent that convinced her
infallible nostrils that he was really her once ruddy and strong
master.
Davis took her back to the old place where he had just rebuilt the
hut and stable and there they had lived happily together ever since.
* * * * *
On the Highway from Boston to Canada, stood Benedict’s Tavern, and
here True often met distinguished horses on their way to or from the
race course on The Plains of Abraham, in Quebec, where men sent their
horses from great distances to test their speed against other horses.
There were then, in the United States of America, no race-courses.
It was at this stage-house, no doubt, that in True was first born
that racing spirit, of which nothing came for a long time.
In the late winter of his first year at Randolph, Master Morgan fell
ill with lung-trouble; he had to give up his teaching and singing
and, finding he could not afford to keep a horse, hired True out to
one Robert Evans, 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 dollars and to feed
the horse.
Evans, big chinned and grey eyed, was a lean and sinewy frontiersman,
poor and hard-working, with a large family, and True knew,
intuitively, that his days of pleasant jaunting about the country
under the saddle were over. However, with that indomitable courage,
which characterizes his descendants to this day, he set about the
difficult task and by the first of June it was finished, without help
from any other horse.[6]
He never regretted this work for it developed his chest and leg
muscles early in life, muscles, the like of which had not been known
before in a horse of his size.
The setting of many of True’s most interesting experiences and
exciting adventures at this period of his life, was Chase’s Mill.
This busy spot was situated on the wooded bank of the White River,
as pretty a bit of Vermont as one could find in a day’s journey. The
river sparkled and laughed between green banks and leaped merrily
over the mill-wheel; spruce and firs thrust thirsty feet deep down
in the water and reared tall heads high into the upper air to catch
the sun’s rays; perfume of wild flowers loaded the breeze; birds sang
all day, and white stemmed birches guarded the nearby forest like
soldiers standing in a row, straight and firm.
Miller Chase plied an honest trade in Medford rum while the farmers
waited for the wobbly stones to grind their corn or the saws to saw
their logs. Horses and oxen grazed at hand, taking the opportunity to
enjoy the delicious grass growing so abundantly in the rich, fertile
valley.
One day True chanced to remark upon this grass to his friend Old
Grey.
“Know you not,” she asked, astonished at his youthful ignorance, “how
it came to be broadcast here?”
“Not I!” whinneyed True. Suffice it that he was enjoying its
satisfying plentifulness to the fullest after his hard day in the
plow.
And she told him.
After the massacre, in which her master, Experience Davis, had been
captured, in plundering Zadock Steele’s hut, before burning it,
an Indian found a sack of valuable grass-seed. He put it over his
shoulder and started off down the valley.
After a while he noticed, vaguely, that his load, unlike the usual
manner of loads, became lighter the farther he travelled, but he
stupidly did not think to glance over his shoulder at his burden.
When he reached Dog River there was not a grass-seed left 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, and almost 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.