In my next chapter I shall make good these comments.
CHAPTER III.
THE ITINERANT PIONEER PREACHER'S FAITHFUL HORSE.
I think a good horse is worthy of a niche in the temple of fame. I know that many men have been immortalized in song and eloquence, and had magnificent monuments erected to their memory, who have never done one half as much for the good of the world as the faithful animal I rode so many years, through the wilds of the Southwest, in the service of the American Bible Society. But very few men have done as much to promote the circulation of the Word of God, "without note or comment," as she did in those years of faithful labor.
If there be a paradise where there are purling streams, grateful shade, and fat pastures for horses that have been faithful and true, I am sure that she has a high rank in "the noble army" of horses that in sunshine and in storm, with unflagging devotion, have borne itinerant pioneer preachers through mud and rain, and sleet and snow, as with glowing, burning zeal they have prosecuted their heroic Christian labors. All honor to the itinerant's faithful horse—my own among the number! My very pen seems to catch new inspiration, and dance with delight, as I attempt her eulogy.
In fact, she shrank from no toil in the prosecution of this good work. She never kept me from fulfilling an appointment by refusing to ford a river. She never hesitated to enter any canebrake it was necessary for me to cross, and, though the canes were ever so thick and tangled, and resisted her progress like so many ropes or cords around her breast, yet she pressed carefully and firmly against them, until they yielded to her power, and we emerged safely from the thicket. She never flinched from climbing the steepest mountain-paths, where I had to hold on to her mane with both hands to keep from sliding off behind her; and then she would as kindly perform the more difficult feat of descending such paths, stepping carefully and firmly so as not to stumble or fall, while I kept my position in the saddle by holding on to the crupper with one hand and guiding her with the other. In a word, she never failed or disappointed me at any time, in any place, or in any particular.
She was of medium size, light-sorrel color, white face, and in all respects of admirable form and mold. She had been broken for the saddle to either pace, trot, or gallop, and each gait was about as easy and perfect as possible. In long journeys of weeks, and sometimes of months, her movements were always free and fleet, and by alternating from one gait to another she bore me about as easily and gently as one could well wish to be carried on horseback. But her kind, affectionate disposition was her crowning excellence. I never hitched her and went into a house for a long or short stay, that she did not greet me as soon as I opened the door on my return with her affectionate whinny. She would recognize me among the congregation, as I came out of any church where I had preached, or wherever she could see me in the largest gatherings of people, and always with the same warm salutation. Whenever I went to her stable in the morning, or wherever I approached her after a brief separation, her demonstrations of affection were as strong as they could well be without human powers.
On one occasion I rode up to the bank of a small river, very near its mouth, and hailed the ferryman on the opposite side. While waiting for him to cross, I led her down upon the planks which extended a short distance into the river, that she might drink. Wading into the water, she stepped beyond the planks and instantly sank to her breast in the mud. It was the sediment that had been deposited there by numerous freshets. As she went down the entire depth of her fore-legs in an instant, she made one desperate effort to extricate herself, but in vain. She seemed to comprehend her condition perfectly, turned to me with a beseeching look and groan, and did not make another struggle. I told her to lie still, and started on a run to get some teamsters, whom I had met with their large six-horse teams as I rode up to the river-bank, to help me in getting her out. They kindly came to my aid, and by putting my saddle-girth under her breast, and tying ropes to each end of it, they lifted her out of the mud by main strength. When she was fairly on her feet, her demonstrations of gratitude were most remarkable. She thanked me over and over again as plainly and strongly as horse-language would possibly admit of, danced around me with delight, persisted in rubbing her nose against me in the most affectionate manner, and showed a joy that seemed wellnigh human. It was warm summer weather, and on reaching the hotel on the opposite shore I had her legs and her entire body from the tips of her ears to the end of her tail thoroughly washed and rubbed dry. After dinner I resumed my journey, and she was as well as ever.
Everywhere, during all the years that I traveled in the Brush, my Jenny—for that was the name I gave her—made friends for herself and me. If I rode up to a house upon a plantation, hailed it according to the custom of the country, and was welcomed to its hospitalities by the owner, he would call a negro servant:
"Ho! boy, carry this horse to the stable and take good care of her. D'ye hear?"