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.
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!