IN WHICH “TRUE” BECOMES “JUSTIN MORGAN.”
Once or twice a week it was the custom among the farmers, waiting
at Chase’s Mill, to pass the time testing their strength or that of
their horses. It was healthful sport and kept them and their beasts
in trim.
Many were the jugs of Medford rum consumed on these occasions, and
anyone having a horse to try, or a new test of strength for the men,
was welcomed.
Running their horses short distances for small stakes came to be very
popular.[7] A course of eighty rods was measured, starting at the
mill and extending along the highway; a line was drawn across the
road, called a “scratch,” the horses were ranged in a row, and at the
drop of a hat away they went, cheered by the crowd.
It so happened that Evans and True, who never finished their work
until dusk, were rarely at these tests. Evans, himself, was too tired
to join in the sports, but True often thought he would like to try
his strength against the larger, heavier horses.
One day, coming along the River Road to the mill, his heavy
farm-harness and tug-chains still dangling on True, they passed
Master Justin Morgan--he stood under a maple tree and was lilting an
old French song learned from the Canadian lumbermen, called “A la
Claire Fontaine.” True and Evans paused to listen. Everyone liked
Master Morgan for his sweet voice and gentle manners.
When the song was finished Evans gave the singer neighborly greeting
and strode on to the mill, True following him, more like a dog than a
horse.
The sun was gone and the evening shadows were beginning to fall, but
there were still lingering along the horizon long streaks of crimson
and gold that tinged the river with color.
In evident discussion, near a log at the mill, stood a group of
farmers.
Evans and True approached.
Nathan Nye, friendly and jovial, whittling a birch stick, looked up
as Evans said: “How be ye all?”
“Why not give Bob’s horse a show?” he asked, a twinkle in his keen
blue eyes, a smile brightening his genial face.
Horses and oxen were hitched to the limbs of trees or grazed near at
hand, quite without interest in whatever was taking place. Sledges
and wagons rested their shafts on the ground, seeming to wait
patiently.
“Is it a pulling bee?” asked Evans, leaning against True’s side.
“Yaas, but I guess it’s abeout over, now,” drawled a lank youth,
coming out of the mill with a sack of meal on 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 the owner of the horse
that can get that there log on my runway this 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 making quite a chore of a very simple
thing; I’ll just have my 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 his arm 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’t make 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’s owner, scornfully.
“Colt or no, he’s the finest bit o’ horse-flesh this side of The
Plains of Abraham!” Evans contended, hotly. “Give him his head and
he goes like a shot and doesn’t pull an ounce, and as for drawing a
load--when this horse starts, _something’s_ got to come! That is,” he
added 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 that there ‘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, and left True
nibbling among the grasses and weeds. When they had disappeared he
glanced at the log which the other horses had “refused”--horses much
larger and heavier than he. The opportunity he had hoped for had 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 by the taunt that
he was a “pony.” At any rate he was over fourteen hands and weighed
nine hundred and fifty pounds!
“As I understand it,” Evans was saying, as the men came out of the
shop, “the agreement is that my horse has 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 led him to the
enormous log, where he fastened the tugs properly. Then he stepped
one side and looked the young horse straight in the eye.
True returned his look--they might almost have been said 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 weight like that _on a test_--couldn’t
two or three of you get on and 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 the miller.
“Well, mine’s a live horse,” Evans cried, with a grin. “Get on there!
Justin Morgan’s waitin’ for to take you 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 Chase ran to get his
lanthorn, swinging it back and forth, as he returned.
“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, almost crouching,
and waited for the word to start. When it was given, his
chest-muscles strained, his wide nostrils were scarlet and dilated,
and this scion of Arabia’s proud breed moved off as if inspired by
Allah himself for an almost miraculous feat.
The bystanders, craning their necks to see, ran alongside; the men,
perched on the log, fell off as it rocked from side to side, and then
the young horse paused for breath--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 the amazed men
broke into the wildest cheers ever heard at Chase’s Mill.[8]
FOOTNOTES:
[7] Morgan Horses, Linsley, page 133.
[8] Morgan Horses, Linsley, page 137.