MORGAN MAKES A TRIP TO BOSTON.
For several days Morgan showed his regret at the fate of the beaver
by neither romping nor playing. When David and himself were on their
way from place to place and resting at noon, he cropped grass in a
very staid and dignified manner, whilst David sat in the shade and
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-Canada stage coaches,
carrying the mail, and they would stand one side and watch the
horses running at full speed over the rough roads; the horn winding
a lusty warning to private coach, curricle or rider, that might be
approaching from the other direction round a sharp bend in the way.
Again they would pass lazy oxen, drawing their sleds slowly to
market, or coming home from mill, their loads creaking behind them as
they swayed awkwardly from side to side, responding reluctantly to
the goad-sticks in their drivers’ hands.
These pioneer teams drew the products of the outlying farms--maple
sugar, and potash and “black salts”--(gathered by thrifty farmers
from the ashes of winter fires or logging heaps)--to the towns.
The forests of Vermont at first were gloomy and almost impenetrable,
tending, some claimed, to make the people grave and serious, but
already the lumber industry had begun the destruction of the
beautiful woods of hemlock, birch, white pine, ash, chestnut and
stately oak. Saw-mills whirred and sang busily on river banks, whose
falls afforded such marvellous water-power for their wheels, and
comfortable houses soon took the place of pioneer huts in many places.
In spite of his faithful service to the Wings, they did not buy the
Morgan, and Hawkins after a while sold him to the same Robert Evans,
at Randolph, for whom he had once done such good service.
Randolph had a newspaper now, called _The Weekly Wanderer_, and this
praised the Morgan so highly that for a while, out of pride, Evans
had to keep him in good condition. But unfortunately this pride
lasted but a short time, Evans being too busy at his farm work and
trapping, earning a living for his family.
On the day of his return to Randolph, Morgan heard that Master Justin
Morgan had gone on to “lie in green pastures, beside still waters.”
So sweet a sound had this to the lonely horse, separated from his
good friends in Montpelier, that he sometimes wandered away from the
Evans’ primitive barn, looking for that “Valley of the Shadow” of
which men spoke when referring to the kindly school-master. The heat
of the mid-summer days sometimes oppressed the little horse, and he
grew thin and weary at the plow, but there was no “Valley of the
Shadow” for him--no other valley could he find than his work-a-day
one along the banks of the sparkling White River in full sunshine.
In the weary battling against the uncongenial farm life, he was no
little cheered by the memory of what his father told him of his
high-crested ancestor, the Godolphin Arabian--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 he was humiliated by the
knowledge that there were burrs in his tail and in the bit of dark
hair that grew above his fetlocks.
Chase’s Mill was still the centre of the town’s gaiety; occasionally
there were races, but rarely were the horses worth Morgan’s effort.
In spring, when the world was full of flowers, and orchids and blue
flags hung their banners out to tempt the Evans children into the
woods, Morgan would go with them to gather these or the more useful
medicinal herbs for times of sickness--pleurisy-root, marshmallow or
ginseng. In summer he went with them to pick berries of all sorts or
wild grapes, and when the autumn came, with its glory of beech and
maple, turning to copper and scarlet, he would bring home their bags
of nuts across his round back.
In winter his coat grew long and thick; and Evans himself rode him to
distant traps set in the forest for bear, musk-rat and foxes, which
supplied food or clothing for the family. The horse grew accustomed
after a while to the monotony of his life and tried to make the best
of it.
One cold, clear day Evans cleaned him so very carefully Morgan felt
sure something was about to happen, but did not try to guess what;
he had learned the futility of that long ago, for things never came
about as he guessed or planned they should.
In the course of time, however, he found himself cantering along the
stage-road to Boston. It was a trip he had long wanted to take, so
many horses had told him what a beautiful and gay city it was.
The day being severely cold, he was glad enough of the long legs and
homespun woolen breeches of his rider which covered so much of his
sides. As for Evans, he had his muskrat cap pulled well over his ears
and his home-made boots of calf-skin (smelling horribly of grease),
with the heavy breeches tucked well inside, were warm and comfortable
to his feet.
But they must have cut a sorry figure when they reached Boston and
went along Summer Street; that lovely, fashionable thoroughfare, with
its stately trees, beautiful flower gardens and splendid mansions.
It was dusk when they stopped in Corn Court, at the Braser Inn--the
famous hostelry opened by Samuel Cole, in 1634, where Miantonomah’s
painted Indians--envoys to Sir Harry Vane--had been entertained;
where the 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 the side door of the
tavern, Morgan heard a familiar, bantering voice; the odor of musk
came to his nostrils faintly, and glancing about, he saw--as he knew
he should--the Coxcomb.
No fop of the King’s court could have looked more elegant; his
Continental coat, cocked hat and high shining boots were of the
latest cut--not less offensive to the 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 can show you rare sport
at cards if you’ve money in your purse.”
Evans towered above the popinjay as his Green Mountains would have
towered over Beacon Hill. He gazed down at him with contempt,
vaguely, yet not definitely, recognizing his one-time antagonist in a
race, as Morgan had.
“I have no money to lose to you, my young sir,” he made reply,
ungraciously. “I am but a simple farmer, and I play with none but
my own kind. I do not know the rules by which such as you handle the
cards!”
“Then join us in a glass of Medford rum--such as you Vermonters know
so well how to appreciate--’tis cold outside and the landlord will
mull us a bowl. Come, I say!”
He clapped the farmer hospitably on the shoulder in friendly fashion,
and led the way into the tavern.
A kind bar-maid came out and threw a fur square over Morgan’s
shivering back and give him a warm mash, which comforted him greatly.
He acknowledged her friendliness, by nipping her sleeve gently with
his lip; and as she was fond of horses, this pleased her, and she
further brought him joy by patting his face gently and murmuring
little love-talk in his ears.
Many hours later the side door opened and the Coxcomb came out. He
was talking to himself as he closed the door behind him, blotting
out the sudden radiance from the great, roaring fire inside the
tavern. He did not notice Morgan, though he almost touched him in the
darkness as he paced to and fro.
“Egad!” he cried, under his breath; “the fellow had money--but he has
it not. Let him go back where he belongs, to his land of hemlock and
frost-bitten, half-civilized race…. Yet,” and he almost sighed--not
quite, “even _I_ awakened to a slight feeling of compunction when he
turned out the toe of a woman’s stocking and confessed it was his
last shilling--money, he remembered too late, his wife had given him
to buy a calico gown…. Ha! Calico, at the trifle of three shillings
the yard! Mistress Lloyd”--here Morgan pricked his ears back and
forth--“Mistress Lloyd wears silks and satins, and her laces are like
cobwebs…. Oddsbodikins! _There_ is a maid to turn a man’s head--even
mine! ’Twill not be long now before my suit prospers…. I have won
everything from her father but his daughter, and I shall bide my time
till I win 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 satin waistcoat-pocket
a snuff-box wrought in gold by a master craftsman. With the tips
of his delicate fingers he daintily pinched a few grains of the
evil-smelling powder and placed it to his nostrils.
Morgan sneezed.
The Coxcomb stepped hurriedly aside with a prodigious oath as the
door of the Inn swung open.
Robert Evans stalked out into the night, his cap pulled over his
ears, his fur cape wrapped tight about his shoulders. The Coxcomb
greeted him with a condescending smile and extended his snuff-box.
The giant waved it aside with a gesture of dignity and scorn.
“No, sir,” he said, shortly; “if the good Lord had intended my nose
for a dirt-box, he would have put it on upside down!”
Master Knickerbocker laughed, though Evans had not intended to be
funny.
“Egad! A very good sally!” he drawled. “Yet I but tried to show my
friendliness.”
“’Tis a pity you had not tried to show it earlier in the evening,”
returned Evans, gruffly, as he mounted his horse and rode away.
Good Dame Evans would have no calico gown from Boston, that was sure,
and ’twas money she’d saved for years from her cheese and butter
sales, and kept in an old bee-hive in the attic, saying no word to
anyone of it.
Now her sacrifices had gone to purchase snuff and perfume for the
Coxcomb.
[Illustration:
From a photograph.
“‘WHERE THE GREAT LLOYD SETS HIS HALL’!”]
Morgan had often seen Dame Evans give the traditional Vermont
“beech seal” to her sons--and he would not deny they needed it; and
he had seen her dash scalding water on a prowling Indian; he guessed
Robert Evans’ greeting, when they reached home, would not be an
affectionate one.
On the way back to Randolph, Evans was in a temper and swore
grievously. Morgan had caught a cold and coughed constantly. The
journey was withal a trying one; ’twas not to be wondered at that the
horse’s memories of Boston were neither beautiful nor gay, and that
he never had a desire to repeat his trip.
It was dark when they reached home, but Mistress Evans, who had been
on the lookout, threw open the kitchen door as they entered the gate,
and the barnyard was flooded with the warm glow of the firelight from
within. Her head was tied up in a fustian square and a fur was thrown
over her shoulders. She ran out to greet them, a lanthorn in her hand.
“Welcome, home, Husband, dear!” she cried, cheerily. “Give me the
purchases. I would see my calico frock without delay. Yes, and get to
work on it, for ’tis no short task to stitch those long seams--with
chores to do besides!”
She held out her hand eagerly.
“Go into the house directly, Wife, out of the cold!” evaded Evans,
taking the lanthorn from her. “I will be 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 preparations of supper.
In spite of the cold and fatigue of his owner, Morgan never got a
better rubbing-down nor a finer meal.
“Well, Morgan,” Evans murmured, at last, “I guess I can’t put it off
any longer.”
He dragged his reluctant feet slowly toward the house, where Dame
Evans was waiting for him with steaming hulled corn, fried pork and
maybe something else--when she found out his secret!