The very next morning he came swinging out of the house looking most gentlemanly in his high stock, ruffled shirt and shining boots. On his head sat, most jauntily, the new hat.
David was off for a town meeting.
Down the road cantered Morgan, meeting many acquaintances who paused in speechless admiration until they passed out of sight. Some with envy, alack; some with criticism of the extravagance, but others with friendly nod of greeting and approval.
The sun shone, the crisp air was fragrant with pine needles, and birds chirped in the trees that fringed the highway. Morgan champed his bit and curvetted from one side of the road to the other, his heart full of the morning freshness.
Suddenly a yellow dog came in sight, and the horse, full of fun and spirit, lowered his head and made a dash at him, remembering his colt-days and the game of “Red-Coats.” The dog tucked his tail between his hind legs and made off down the road at lightning speed.
This was enough to rouse Morgan; even though he did not like dogs, he thought it might be a race. Helter, skelter, he started; ever fleet in running, he was soon gaining slowly, but surely, on the dog, who was little more than a yellowish brown streak on the landscape.
Morgan heard David say, good-naturedly:
“Go it, my boy, stop when you get good and ready; I am having as much fun as you.”
Once, as the dog glanced hurriedly back over his shoulder, the horse saw his tongue hanging out—he looked almost winded, but his pace was long and even, like Morgan’s, and his flapping ears responded rhythmically to his gait.
Morgan tossed his head and made a movement with his tail as much as to indicate he had just begun to race. The rapid clatter of his own hoofs on the hard road was music to him.