There has been a great change in livery horses within the last twenty
years. Years ago, if a young fellow wanted to take his girl out riding,
and expected to enjoy himself, he had to hire an old horse, the worst in
the livery stable, that would drive itself, or he never could get his arm
around his girl to save him. If he took a decent looking team, to put on
style, he had to hang on to the lines with both hands, and if he even took
his eyes off the team to look at the suffering girl beside him, with his
mouth, the chances were that the team would jump over a ditch, or run
away, at the concussion. Riding out with girls was shorn of much of its
pleasure in those days.
We knew a young man that was going to put one arm around his girl if he
did not lay up a cent, and it cost him over three hundred dollars. The
team ran away, the buggy was wrecked, one horse was killed, the girl had
her hind leg broken, and the girl's father kicked the young man all over
the orchard, and broke the mainspring of his watch.
It got so that the livery rig a young man drove was an index to his
thoughts. If he had a stylish team that was right up on the bit, and full
of vinegar, and he braced himself and pulled for all that was out, and the
girl sat back in the corner of the buggy, looking as though she should
faint away if a horse got his tail over a line, then people said that
couple was all right, and there was no danger that they would be on
familiar terms.
But if they started out with a slow old horse that looked as though all he
wanted was to be left alone, however innocent the party might look, people
knew just as well as though they had seen it, that when they got out on
the road, or when night came on, that fellow's arm would steal
around her waist, and she would snug up to him, and--Oh, pshaw, you have
heard it before.
Well, late years the livery men have "got onto the racket," as they say at
the church sociables, They have found that horses that know their business
are in demand, and so horses are trained for this purpose. They are
trained on purpose for out-door sparking. It is not an uncommon thing to
see a young fellow drive up to the house where his girl lives with a team
that is just tearing things. They prance, and champ the bit, and the young
man seems to pull on them as though his liver was coming out. The horses
will hardly stand still long enough for the girl to get in, and then they
start off and seem to split the air wide open, and the neighbors say,
"Them children will get all smashed up one of these days."
The girl's mother and father see the team start, and their minds
experience a relief as they reflect that "as long as John drives that
frisky team there can't be no hugging a going on." The girl's older sister
sighs and says, "That's so," and goes to her room and laughs right out
loud.
It would be instructive to the scientists to watch that team for a few
miles. The horses fairly foam, before they get out of town, but striking
the country road, the fiery steeds come down to a walk, and they mope
along as though they had always worked on a hearse. The shady woods are
reached, and the carriage scarcely moves, and the horses seem to be
walking in their sleep. The lines are loose on the dash board, and the
left arm of the driver is around the pretty girl, and they are talking
low. It is not necessary to talk loud, as they are so near each other that
the faintest whisper can be heard.
But a change comes over them. A carriage appears in front, coming towards
them. It may be someone that knows them. The young man picks up the lines,
and the horses are in the air, and as they pass the other carriage it
almost seems as though the team is running away, and the girl that was in
sweet repose a moment before acts as though she wanted to get out. After
passing the intruder the walk and conversation are continued.
If you meet the party on the Whitefish Bay road at 10 o'clock at night,
the horses are walking as quietly as oxen, and they never wake up until
coming into town, and then he pulls up the team and drives through the
town like a cyclone, and when he drives up to the house the old man is on
the steps, and he thinks John must be awful tired trying to hold that
team. And he is.
It is thought by some that horses have no intelligence, but a team that
knows enough to take in a sporadic case of buggy sparking has got sense.
These teams come high, but the boys have to have them.