JUSTIN MORGAN.
In True’s third year, Master Whitman came one morning, betimes, to brush him down before taking him out for his usual exercise—so the “pony” thought. But after a while he was convinced that his master called him names more loving and tender than usual and that his voice had a sorrowful ring.
Gipsey and True knew that hard times had come knocking at the farm-gate and that their kind master was in debt because his crops had failed the year before. They knew, too, if the worst came to the worst they might have to be sold to pay these debts.
On this particular morning Master Whitman murmured sadly to his pet as he continued to polish the sides of his symmetrical body until they shone like the bosom of the river when the afternoon sunlight played upon it; and his heavy mane and tail were brushed until they waved lightly under every passing breeze.
With unfailing intuition the colt saw the future: their happy home, alas, was about to be broken up. Even Caesar felt the prevailing gloom; dejectedly, he sat on a beam and washed his face for the fifth time that morning, though it was but just sunrise.
Gipsey peered over the partition of their stall and whinneyed softly, but with resignation, for, wise old horse that she was, she knew it was the lot of horses to be parted, sooner or later—here to-day, there to-morrow.
Presently the cat sprang nimbly down, and arching his back, rubbed himself against his master’s leg and purred with sympathy.
In spite of a certain sadness, True himself felt no little excitement—anticipating adventure, as is the manner of youth first starting out into the great world. He did not then know the horrors of homesickness from which affectionate horses suffer so keenly—suffering that neither sugar nor salt can assuage.
Master Whitman had always made play and pleasure of training, and had never given True a task he could not perform. For this reason the horse accepted every order unhesitatingly, with the confidence of absolute trust. They had become so endeared to one another for these and sundry other causes that the idea of a parting was inexpressibly saddening to both.
When, a half hour later, True was hitched to the “shay”—which he now pulled with such ease and pleasure—he fared forth, sad at heart, but eager and brisk in gait, as usual. The day had advanced and, as they travelled, the river glinted gold in the light which the morning sun threw over the fringe of trees along its banks. Very soon they arrived at the tavern where already several teams stood waiting.
Throwing the reins loosely on the horse’s back—for he had been trained to stand without hitching—Silas Whitman sprang from the “shay” and entered the tavern.
He was gone the best part of an hour, and when he returned he was not alone. A tall, slender stranger walked beside him, and as they drew near the colt perceived from the odor of this man that he was a pleasant-tempered person and friendly to animals.
Indeed, True liked him at once, and ’twas well, for the pale, scholarly looking man whose name he would one day bear, was none other than Justin Morgan, who had once lived in Springfield, but had moved to Randolph, Vermont, in 1788, with his family.
As Master Morgan pressed the muscles of the young horse the latter did not flinch nor draw away. Then the mouth had to be examined and the feet looked at, one by one. Questions had to be answered and other investigations made, common among men engaged in a horse deal.
Master Whitman answered the questions, or stood in grave silence, his eyes moist with the tears he could not entirely hide, as his acquaintance considered True’s various traits.
“Yes, sir,” the stranger finally said, “this colt, as you say, is free from natural blemish and is not disfigured by that cruel, prevailing practice of branding. He seems sound…. You say he is the son of De Lancey’s True Briton, and his mother a descendant of the Layton Barb?”
“I repeat it,” replied Silas Whitman, “these are the facts, to the best of my belief.”
He could scarcely trust himself to speak.
“He is remarkably well ribbed-up and firm under the mane, for so young a horse,” said Master Morgan, “but he is small.”
“He is not yet entirely developed,” was the answer. “You see, he is, as yet, scarce three years old. But he is a bit over fourteen hands, and weighs already upwards of nine hundred pounds. I told you he might be called a pony, except for his characteristics.”
“No doubt he will increase in weight, and maybe a bit in height,” Master Morgan agreed. “His Arabian ancestry would account for his size. Not that I am one of those foolish persons who considers size necessary for perfection,” he hastily added. “Since I have seen him I am willing to take him in place of the twenty-five dollars you owe me, though twenty-five dollars is a large sum, and I am a poor man. Shall we call it settled?”
For a moment True thought his old master would surely have one of his spells of faintness, but when he finally spoke his voice was brave and steady.
“The pony,” he said, gently, “will be ready for you in the morning.” He rested his arm across True’s neck, while the stranger looked away for a moment. “This little horse,” Silas continued, after a pause, having recovered himself, “has been to me what the ‘steed of the desert’ is to his Arab master. When I part with him I give you the best friendship I ever had; the best work of three years, spent in training and developing the intelligence of this remarkable horse. And, mark you, he will live to bear out the confidence I have in him. I have ever treated him as a human being; I have romped with him, played with him, talked to him as I might have talked to a child—if Providence had blessed my wife and me with such a treasure—but I have ever insisted upon obedience and respect, as a father should insist upon these qualities from a child.”
“As I insist upon in mine,” acquiesced Master Morgan, as Silas hesitated a moment, feeling he was perhaps saying too much.
“There is but one thing more I would add,” went on Silas, feeling a friendly sympathy from Master Morgan. “Be good to him and he will be faithful to you, teach him to love you and his willing service will be to you and yours until the end. He does not know what falter means, and if you are wise you will never let him find out by asking him to do impossible things. Ask of him only that which is within his power and he will never fail you.”
Kind-hearted Master Morgan grasped Whitman’s hand. “I shall not forget,” he said, deeply touched.
That night Caesar climbed on the rack of True’s stall and dropped lightly down on the horse’s back, where he purred an undying affection and sorrow at his friend’s approaching departure. Hoping to cheer him a little, the cat told many anecdotes of other stables and barns which he suggested True might some time visit, but the heavy sadness could not be lifted from their hearts. Gipsey gave him advice, and at midnight Master Whitman came to see if all were well with his pet. At cock-crow Mistress Whitman appeared with a most delicious breakfast as a parting favor.
Silas had just finished rubbing the young horse down when his new owner came, bringing his own saddle and bridle—and very easy and comfortable they were, too.
When the sad partings were over, True stepped fearlessly out on his way to the broad highway of the world, where he was to have so many sweet and bitter experiences.