Modelled by Roger Noble Burnham.

“… THE FEEL OF HER CHEEK AGAINST HIS!”

JUSTIN MORGAN
FOUNDER OF HIS RACE

THE ROMANTIC
HISTORY OF A HORSE

BY
ELEANOR WARING BURNHAM
(MRS. ROGER NOBLE BURNHAM)
AUTHOR OF THE “WHITE PATH” AND OTHER STORIES

ILLUSTRATED

FRONTISPIECE BY ROGER NOBLE BURNHAM

THE SHAKESPEARE PRESS
114-116 E. 28th STREET
NEW YORK
1911

Copyright, 1911, by
Eleanor W. Burnham.

TO
THE MEMORY OF
MY FATHER.

photograph by E. D. Johnston, Savannah.

ANNANDALE HOUSE

FOREWORD.

The establishment of an historic basis for this little romance was fraught with many difficulties, owing to the great divergence in statement and opinions to be found in regard to the life and origin of Justin Morgan. The author was obliged to select from a mass of contradictory material that which most nearly conformed with the purpose and continuity of the story.

Therefore, if any find the history not to his way of thinking she begs him to realize that it is, after all, but a detail which she hopes may be compensated for by the manner in which she has endeavored to bring out all those noble characteristics for which the Founder of His Race was famous.

In the frontispiece, modelled by Roger Noble Burnham, the portrait of Mistress Lloyd was posed for by Miss Fifi Willis, of Columbia, Missouri, to whom the author wishes to extend her thanks.

Eleanor Waring Burnham,
(Morgan Horse Club).

Magnolia, Massachusetts, September, 1911.

CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION.

The human side of horse-nature may have been touched upon by various writers who have given us glimpses into this realm of thought, but it remained for the author of Justin Morgan, Founder of His Race, to introduce us to a real character, as an individual, a horse of tradition, but whose lay is unsung.

Almost forgotten, this horse’s origin was wrapt in obscurity until recently, yet he became the sire of the most famous breed of horses in America.

Only those who have lived with horses, as I have—​out of doors and in my studio—​learn to know them as distinct beings, as varied in their make-up and development as the human kind, affected by the same laws and influences that stimulate or smother our mental growth.

I dare not tell all I know to be true about the intelligence and sagacity of our horse friends, for fear of having my balance of mind subjected to doubt; but I am quite ready to believe all that this author tells us of equine feelings and faithfulness, for she has been prompted to relate this little tale of Old Justin Morgan through love and intimate acquaintance with his descendants.

The author’s father was the first to introduce the Morgan horse into the State of Georgia—​in 1858—​when he purchased the celebrated Enterprise, G.G.G.G. son of Justin Morgan. Later he took out many others—​all of whom made his stock farm, Annandale, famous.

My own inherited associations with Vermont brought me into relation with Morgan horses in childhood, when I listened to tales of their wonderful powers of endurance, strength and intelligence, which maturer years have never made me doubt.

The early Morgan was the best all-round, general-purpose horse ever produced. They were highly valued, and New England breeders—​especially the Vermonters—​kept the blood pure by breeding in parallel lines and then inbreeding, by which means they established a fixed type that has and will reproduce itself and maintain its characteristics for generations.

For a period of sixty years the Vermonters bred nothing but Morgans, and during the Civil War Vermont was one of the few places where horses could be obtained. They proved so efficient for cavalry purposes that the State was almost stripped of them. It is well known that the best mounted regiments were on Morgan horses.

Their reputation was such that after the war the West Point Academy was furnished with none but Morgans, until about twenty-five years ago the Western horse has been supplied as a substitute, greatly to the detriment of the service.

Following the depletion made in 1861-65 came the popularity of the Hambletonian horse to lead the Vermonters into untried experiments of doubtful value. The result was that, by 1890, the pure Morgan horse was found to be the exception, and the few breeders who realized what had been lost began to cherish the remnants of an almost lost race, and prizes were offered for the best Morgans.

Mr. Joseph Battell, upon whose investigations this author has founded her historic narrative of the first Morgan horse, gathered with infinite pains all the pedigrees he could find and established The Morgan Horse Register, which is now accepted as the authority.

In 1907 the Morgan horse-breeding work of the United States Government received a great impetus when Mr. Battell presented to the Department of Agriculture four hundred acres of fine land lying two miles from Middlebury, Vermont, now known as the Morgan Horse Farm, and equipped with farmhouse, stables, barns, etc., to which were removed all the horses from the Vermont Agricultural Experimental Station, near Burlington.

The Morgan horse has always been noted for his longevity, retaining his spirit and vigor in extreme old age. They are free from almost every species of disease, showing their soundness of constitution. They mature early, and are easily kept, because they are very hardy. To-day they show the traits of Old Justin Morgan in their docility and symmetry of form, and this Founder of his race, according to Mr. Battell, was but six generations of English breeding from the original Arab stock, including Byerly Turk and Godolphin Arabian.

The Morgan horse has quietly won all the honors a grateful people can bestow upon him, and we are glad to greet his embodiment of character in this form.

H. K. Bush-Brown,
(Morgan Horse Club).

Washington, D. C.

JUSTIN MORGAN

CHAPTER I.

EARLY INFLUENCES.

Once upon a time—​but why should I begin this horse-tale as if it were a mere fairy-tale? It is founded on the story of a real horse in a setting of incidents related in the histories of the various localities in which he lived. Where possible, history has been so closely followed as to use the real names of those vigorous pioneers who helped to make it.

And so, upon a certain time—

In 1789,[1] when there were but thirteen stars on the American flag, and George Washington was the newly-made President, near Springfield, Massachusetts, a colt was born, a colt destined to become the founder of the finest breed of horses ever known in America.

A wide, lush pasture on the gently-sloping bottom land, through which the Connecticut River winds its way to the Sound, was the scene of his earliest gambolling.

Poised at a dizzy height, on wobbly, spindly legs, which showed little promise of the symmetry and beauty of later years, he romped near his mother’s protecting heels or rested in her shadow.

His merry, laughing companion was a brook which flowed down to the river; he played along its willow-fringed banks, racing with the beckoning waters until out of breath; then, hurrying back to his mother through the gathering dusk, he would return with her to their pleasant stable in the barnyard of Silas Whitman.

His developing colt-nature expanded, day by day, to the beauties and interests about him. He loved the twinkling waters, the overhanging trees, the ferns spiralling among dark-green shadows; the delicate scent of violets, peeping between moss-covered stones, delighted his sensitive nostrils. He loved the birds, fluttering and swaying on boughs and chirping soft, sweet notes. In response to all Nature his small-pointed ears pricked and quivered. He blew his warm breath for fun on butterflies and bees, as they fussed over dew-wet blossoms, but swerved aside, with trembling nostrils, at the strident cry of a jay, waiting in the shadow for his chance of a practical joke!

The hoot of an owl, the bark of a fox, the crashing of a squirrel through the branches overhead, would make him scamper to his mother’s side, panting and excited.

These were his baby fears; his real and lasting antipathy was to dogs; the distant howling of one seemed to fill him with terror; thunderstorms, too, made him nervous and, so impressible was he to these, he could tell, two days in advance, that one was coming; only much urging could prevail upon him to leave the security of his stable when he felt the approach of one.

Gradually his mother taught him all that one good, faithful horse can teach another, not to show fear, not to shy, not to kick and never to be taken by surprise. He was happy and care-free then, for he did not have to wear hard straps, called harness, nor draw heavy loads, nor wear iron shoes; and his bare, sensitive hoofs soon learned to tell the difference between safe and dangerous ground. His sense of smell was singularly acute and standing close to his mother’s side—​that she might better brush the flies from both, with her long, useful tail—​he learned to distinguish poisonous from wholesome weeds.

Master Whitman called him True Briton, 2d, for his celebrated father, True Briton, but the double name was soon shortened to the very appropriate one of “True.” And, for convenience, we shall speak of his mother as Gipsey.

Gipsey was one of those mothers, unknown to history, but to whose early influence her son possibly owed much of his success in later life. Sometimes it was necessary for her to reprove him; she nipped him sharply, if he were playful at the wrong time, or kicked too strongly in fun; but she never had to admonish him twice about anything on account of his remarkable memory.

One day, when she had to correct him, and was conscious of having lost her temper, she neighed apologetically.

“Alas, my son, I am no better than a woman!”

This was unjust, as True discovered later, for some of the strongest friendships of his life were for women; he found them ever generous with maple sugar and the goodies for which he quickly learned to whinney at their kitchen windows. They were more appreciative, too, and did not expect him to perform miracles, as men did who set him tasks that taxed every nerve and muscle.

Early each morning Silas Whitman came to the barnyard to play with and train the colt, and from the beginning the little creature showed marvellous characteristics.

Never did True forget his first sight of Man! At that time—​being quite new-come into the world—​he did not know the ways of different animals, and thought Master Whitman very curious as he walked about on his hind legs! The small colt wondered if he would have to do the same when he grew older and his spindly legs grew stronger. He did not fear the friendly man-creature who played so gently,—​little by little training him to obey and afterwards rewarding him with a bit of maple sugar. A kind word and a pat was always given to Gipsey, too, and mother and son very soon began to watch for their master’s coming, giving him welcome, with little whinneys, and throaty neighs, when they heard his cheery whistle.

When True’s third molar came he had made the acquaintance of a halter. Later in life he came to see that the conveniences of a halter cannot be taught too early. He found out uses for his, all by himself; one was that he could manage to throw the rein over hay that was too high in the rack to reach comfortably, and thus pull it down to an easy height. His mother thought this very ingenious and praised him, which pleased the little fellow very much.

When the first molar of his permanent teeth came he had been taught all about a bridle and bit—​things he never liked but made the best of, as Gipsey told him they were inevitable.

When there were errands in the village Silas would hitch Gipsey up to the “shay” and allow True to trot alongside for exercise and experience. He enjoyed these little jaunts under the giant elms that bordered the street, carpeted with a patchwork of sifting sunshine and cool shadow.

Over garden fences he could see green, succulent box-hedges and one day, when he found a gate open, he trotted boldly in to get a taste!

Scarcely had he begun to nibble when a dog dashed round the corner of the house, a boy at his heels. When the latter caught sight of the intruder he gave a whoop and urged the dog to nip at True’s feet. The colt, startled, made a quick movement of self-protection with his hard little heels and struck the dog on the head, effectually silencing his bark and rolling him over in the dirt.

A rock hit the colt’s side, but he did not tarry; excitedly, he plunged out of the open gate and raced down the road after his mother, now full half mile away. The odor of box was ever after associated, disagreeably, with boys and dogs in his mind.

When he related the incident to his friend, Caesar, the yellow stable cat, the latter purred conviction and confided that for untold generations dogs had been the sworn enemies of his family.

“It may be possible for a boy, occasionally, to be polite and gentle; I do not know,” mewed the cat. “But as for dogs! Well, you must unsheath your claws and arch your back on sight!”

Caesar was an independent cat of wide experience and had travelled and lived in many barns; his opinion, therefore, had weight with True. One day, whilst rubbing against the colt’s leg, in his affectionate way, he remarked that if it had not been for Gipsey and True he would long since have returned to his last barn-home, where the mice had a sweeter flavor on account of a careless housewife who often left her cheese-box open.

“Besides,” he added, strutting about and waving his tail with careless dignity, “there is a very nice tortoiseshell pussy waiting there for me!”

“But, do you know the way back?” asked True, interested and not failing to admire, and be duly impressed, by Caesar’s swagger and importance.

“I know the way back well enough,” the cat bragged; but added with disgust, “In very truth, the jade who put me in the bag forgot to shake the dust out of it; but such a trifle could not blind me!”

A very happy playground was the Whitman barnyard. Beside the horses there were two little red-and-white calves who romped in a way that entertained but almost drove Caesar crazy. Before them he would flee, round and round, instead of getting out of their way at once!

A curly-tailed, twinkling-eyed pig, very fat and funny, shared their life for a time; but one day he disappeared, noisily, and never returned.

In those days the memory of the British was fresh in the minds of all; the War of the Revolution had been over but a short eight years and the name “Red-Coat” still had an ominous sound. Gipsey, being an American mother, taught her son to hate the British and told him war-tales that made him quiver with patriotism.

One day the colt invented a game which he called “Chasing the Red-Coat,” and fine fun it was, to be sure! With one accord the calves and True made Caesar the “Red-Coat” because he was such a fleet runner! That Caesar did not think much of the game was obvious as he dashed wildly at a tree and running up its trunk sat spluttering at them, his fur on end, his tail straight in the air.

Being interrupted by Silas,—​for daily exercise and practise in the arts of being bitted and led about—​never annoyed the colt. The calves and Caesar watched these performances, furtively, and wondered when their turns would come; True always told them the fun he had and took care to mention the subsequent reward of maple sugar.

For a short time a gentle pigeon came and sat between the young horse’s ears and cooed, softly, whilst he munched at his manger. This was agreeable to the sociable colt, but he was puzzled to notice that the bird did not like his other friend, the cat. True could see how tactfully Caesar tried to win the affections of the pigeon, even reaching out a paw to pat him sometimes.

One day his feathered friend did not come to the stable at the usual time and when the cat sauntered in that afternoon, with a look of keen content on his face, and a feather in his whiskers, True asked if he had seen the pigeon.

Caesar had not, of course!

He added, however, as he placidly washed the feather from his face, that “birds often flew away and did not return!” His expression was so sincere and sympathetic that the colt was no little comforted.

In spite of this treachery, Caesar was really fond of True, and brought him, from time to time, tokens of his affection in the way of delicacies—​rats and mice he had caught in his stealthy rounds—​sometimes a chicken’s foot or a fish’s head from the kitchen. It was difficult for True to refuse these cat-dainties without hurting Caesar’s feelings, until he hit upon the clever expedient of pulling out a mouthful of delicious fodder from his rack and offering it in his turn to the cat!

One day the colt boasted to the cat that he “could see in the dark.”

Caesar purred, contemptuously, washing his face the while.

“That, my friend,” he said, “is a mere trifle, hardly worth bragging about! Now, if you could but speak the human language, then, indeed, would I wave my tail and meow, ‘Hail, Master!’”

True was abashed, but said:

“Nay, my mother says speech is but a vain and doubtful good, especially in women!”

To this sally the cat had no reply, both he and Gipsey had known women better than the yearling True.

One day Silas brought a black lamb to the pasture, who at once made friends with the colt. The two romped and played together, much as human children might. For the timid little creature True came to have a deep attachment; he liked the feel of the warm little body against his leg. No doubt they exchanged ideas about things of interest as they listened to the brook, singing happily of woods and meadows through which it had run on its way to the river.

This sweet friendship lasted many days, but it was destined to end in a tragedy—​one that must be related as it bore so directly upon the sudden awakening of some of the traits in the colt’s character.

On the edge of a near-by forest there was a rude hut in which dwelt a family of outlaws who lived on their neighbors and left honest dealing to others. Round about the countryside it was whispered they were “Tories,” and Gipsey told True the evil odor borne on the breeze from that direction was sufficient assurance that this was so; the outlaws were, indeed, British, and the wildest crew that ever stole a horse or fired a haystack!

One day, as True stood wrapt in thought beside the stream, admiring the courage that made it sing as happily in sunshine as in shadow, on dark days as on bright, Black Baby, as the lamb was called, came from the other side of the pasture and rubbed against his leg. Seeing in a moment that the colt was preoccupied, the lamb whisked away to wait for the usual whinney of invitation.

The Tory hut showed clear in the morning sunlight and, absently, a moment later the colt glanced that way. To his astonishment he saw the youngest boy, a ne’er-do-well who had stolen pumpkins and apples from his neighbors all his life, unloose a lean, gaunt dog and start towards the pasture.

This young fiend was, oddly enough, named William Howe, quite enough in itself to set an American by the ears! True recalled in a flash all his mother had told him of the British General of the same name.[2]

“How, now,” he thought, “why comes the young robber this way?”

Black Baby continued to frisk about, trying to divert True from his serious mood. He sprang into the air and tossed his little head, cutting all manner of capers, but the colt did not seem inclined to join him in play.

William Howe climbed to the top of the stone fence and, balancing himself adroitly, gazed around as if to locate any possible mischief.

The dog sprang nimbly over and, yelping, ran after an innocent rabbit that bounded across the pasture like an India rubber ball, his short pennant making an almost unbroken line of white over the green grass as he fled before his enemy. Luckily he reached the opposite fence in time and darted behind the protecting stones; baffled, the dog stood barking, furiously.

Soon the boy put his fingers in his lips and whistled, shrilly.

Time and again True had warned Black Baby of this very dog, but the lamb, having known only love and kindness all his little life, forgot, and frolicked gaily towards him!

William Howe cried out in delight, “Sick him, Cornwallis!”

The cosset lamb stood an easy mark for the dog and in an instant lay gasping on the ground, the blood flowing from a horrid wound in his throat. His sobbing breath found an echo in True’s heart and for the first time the colt lost control of himself.

Overcome with a thirst for vengeance, and, screaming as only a horse does when the strait is desperate, he plunged and reared. With a well-aimed blow of his hard, very dark, front-feet he knocked the dog senseless.

This did not satisfy the lamb’s champion; he stamped the body of the wicked beast into the earth, crushing bones as if they had been straws! Furiously he bit, and finally caught the limp carcass in his strong teeth and threw it high in the air. For the moment he was a demon and sought, savagely, for more ways to wipe the remains out of existence!

Suddenly he remembered William Howe who stood at a distance, pelting him with stones. Uttering another fierce cry he turned upon the boy, baring his teeth hideously between his firm lips.

Howe made for the fence, where the desperate rabbit had sought cover, and scrambled over, thinking to be safe on the other side; he did not know the colt was descended from the “birds of the desert!”

True was not even aware of a barrier! As if he had wings he soared over it, doubling his hind-feet close under his body a little to one side.

A tree was all that saved the boy’s life. Swinging up by a low-hanging branch, with the agility of a cat, he found himself out of breath and out of reach of the colt’s gleaming teeth. From wide, scarlet nostrils the hot and excited breath of the maddened animal reached his bare feet.

The Tory scent that came down to True only increased his anger, but not being able to reach the boy, he resolved that the kicking he owed him could be postponed—​for years, if necessary—​but some day, some day, it would be delivered! Furthermore—​he would kick nothing until that day arrived and he met this boy again on level ground!

How he kept his vow we shall see later.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] According to Joseph Battell. Encyclopedia Britannica says 1793.

[2] In 1776, Sir William Howe commanded an army of 55,000 men in an effort to put down “the wicked rebellion.”

CHAPTER II.

TRUE IS BROKEN TO HARNESS.

Even, pleasant and cheerful was True’s natural disposition, but besides these traits there were others that went to make up the peculiar perfection horse-flesh had attained in the twenty-five years before his birth.

A courage, vitality, and zest seemed to be in the very air of the world at that period of horse history, and the blend—​through his father—​of Arabian, Barb and Turk had produced in him the most ideal of horse characters.

That Southern strain was, no doubt, stimulated by the clear, bracing climate of New England, and the combination of circumstances which developed his muscles and expanded his chest, made him the fit founder of a race.

About the year he was born Eclipse, his kins-horse, died.

Eclipse was that four-footed bird “behind whom the whirlwind toiled in vain” and who, in his greatest race, “beat the other horse by two hundred yards, without urging!”[3]

Since then men have said that Eclipse ran “a mile a minute,” but Gipsey told her son differently; she knew horses only ran against each other, not against time.

She also told the colt the part his family had played in the late War, and how General Washington, himself, had ridden one of them at Trenton; but she was obliged to confess, with a droop of her spirited tail, that his father, True Briton had, in his youth, served a British officer.

So graphic were some of these war-tales that the young horse quivered, and almost imagined he heard the crack of muskets and smelt the smoke of battle! He dreamed longingly of a time when he, too, might serve his country under the saddle of some brave soldier, and his nostrils grew wide and his eyes fiery at the hope which was so long afterwards to be realized.

Had she been a woman, and men had seen the workings of her mind as she instructed her son, Gipsey might have been called a witch and as such been burned. With pointing ears and ember-like eyes she neighed softly to him of the Desert; she seemed to hear its call; to see its trackless wastes, and afar, at its limits, she told him groves of olive and date, and pools of clear, cool water lay.

One day, with that far-off look in her eyes, she said to him, prophetically:

“When other horses, now famous, are forgotten, my son, your memory will live on, your influence will still be felt. Men will still love you and you will be praised and revered by all who have knowledge of excellence in horse-flesh. A state will be noted for its horses, and Allah has chosen you to be the first of this line.”

She told him to be ever brave, gentle, and loving; obedient to his master, Man; not to falter, not to turn back never mind the cost.

She told him how to anticipate a command, that he might obey, instantly, and he afterwards became so proficient in this sense that when he came to be trained to harness he obeyed Silas Whitman’s every gesture, as if instinctively, often before the words themselves came. In later life, becoming more experienced, he often took the initiative in times of danger or peril.[4]

When True was a little over a year old Master Whitman brought a piebald horse to live in their stable. Poor old Ceph was of low birth and very stupid.

“In the Desert,” Gipsey told him, “the Arabs say, ‘if piebald, flee him as the pestilence, for he is own brother to a cow’!”

Ceph turned out to be a “stump-sucker” or “piper,” and the grunts and groans accompanying his gnawing disturbed the other two horses intensely. At last when he began on the partition between his stall and True’s it was too much for the colt to bear in silence and patience. He determined to cure him in some way, though at first he did not see how it was to be done.

One day, however, a bit of chain was left hanging on his manger and, when he pushed it with his nose, it made a jangling noise. Ceph, always curious, stopped his “cribbing” long enough to listen, dully, with his flapping ears, and to wonder what it was.

After a short time True found, to his surprise and satisfaction, that he could lift the chain with his teeth and, as he was now tall enough for his chin to reach the top of the partition, it occurred to him he could use the bit of iron to very good advantage.

He laid his plans accordingly and bade Caesar be on hand to see the fun.

About midnight Ceph began to gnaw.

Quick as wink True had the chain in his teeth and over the wall it went—​crack—​right between Ceph’s floppy ears!

Such amazement there never was in any dull horse’s quiet, stupid mind! He squealed and sprang one side, startled into anger and affright. But when he recovered himself all was still; no suspicious noises came from his neighbor’s stall.

Caesar had been standing on his hind legs, peeping through a hole in the partition and at sight of Ceph’s bewilderment, he rolled over in a paroxysm of mirth, as if he did not have a bone in his body, while True stood motionless, guarding their secret.

Presently, very cautiously, Ceph began to gnaw again on the wood of his manger.

In his haste to give another lick, True nearly stepped on the prostrate cat, but, holding his foot poised a moment, Caesar sprang lightly from under it just as a mighty swing took the chain over the barrier.

Ceph threw his head into the air, indignantly, but his suspicions were unconfirmed the silence next door was so intense; then, to add to his perplexity, he heard Gipsey wake with a groan and a stamp.

“Will we never get any rest!” she neighed, hopelessly.

True whinneyed softly, over her side of his stable, to be of good cheer, the worst was over. And afterwards the least sound from Ceph brought a rattling of the mysterious chain which had struck him so hard on the head.

For a few nights this went on, but finally success crowned the colt’s efforts and much to the satisfaction of all, Silas included, Ceph stopped gnawing.

This was not the only time True showed ingenuity. He learned many useful though not mischievous tricks all by himself, but it is not to be supposed that Silas thought as much of them as Gipsey. The colt discovered how to open all the gates, but, as he never thought to close them, their barn-companions wandered out and never returned without being sent for though the horses always came home in good temper after their wanderings in time for the evening meal. At last locks and keys were put on everything, and this was the first intimation True had that his pleasant little accomplishment was not appreciated by his master. As he grew older he eliminated the unpopular trick from his list.

One day, being thirsty, he began to consider how he could open the rain barrel, in which Mistress Whitman caught water for her washing. He tried hard to push the cover [to] one side, but some clever human contrivance made it catch, and so, after trying several other ways, he found the simple and right one of catching the handle in his strong young teeth and lifting straight upward!

Sometimes when he had done this and drunk all the water he wanted, he would pick the cat up by the scruff of the neck with his teeth and hold him over the barrel, meowing desperately, for of all things Caesar hated water! True was only teasing him, but the cat never knew that, and a spasm of terror would chill his marrow at thought of being dropped in.

The death of Black Baby made True more serious and earnest. He went about his daily tasks with interest and spirit, but he did not romp so much and listened more attentively to his mother’s teachings.

One day he found himself hitched up in harness with old Piebald, Ceph. Silas had thought Gipsey too spirited to begin him with, but True walked so fast, and—​though very unsteadily at first—​trotted so much faster than his mate that the next day he was taken out with his mother.

From her he had learned the Royal Road to Happiness and Success: “Obedience first, last, and all the time!”

It was, indeed, a proud day for the colt.

Easy it was for a horse to obey Silas Whitman, he was so careful to explain, and to be sure they understood; he never let them get fretted trying to find out what he wanted by themselves.

As soon as True found he was not expected to run or gallop in harness, he settled down to walking or trotting in his nervous brisk way, and soon the gaits of mother and son were evenly matched.

As time increased True became more and more lovable and people came for miles to see him; some even wanted to buy him and offered as much as twenty-five dollars. But Silas refused all offers for his pet. Very soon he was hitched to the “shay” alone. He stepped out bravely enough feeling the friendly hand of his master to advise and guide him. Then again he had a turn under the saddle; this was freer for there were not so many rules to remember!

When they went on trips of the latter kind, Silas, who was a very well-informed man, talked to him and told him many interesting things and gave him much instruction. Sometimes, on their way home over open fields, grassy knolls and wooded hillsides, Silas would take the wrong turning and leave True to find out the right way by himself. That strange sense of direction in horses was singularly acute in True and they invariably reached home safely, the horse enjoying this confidence of his rider.

One sunny day when the little horse was nearly two years old, they were returning from a trip up the river when Silas swooned, it was a sickness to which he was subject, and, slipping from the saddle to the road, he rolled into the ditch. True, no little disturbed, stood thoughtful a moment, wondering what he could do for his unconscious friend. Finally he caught hold of the Continental collar with his teeth and drew him gently up on the grassy border of the road, under the shade of an oak. Looking around he whinneyed for help, but, as no answer came, he turned and galloped homeward, nor did he go by the longer way of the road. Over rough, uneven, cleared spaces, he went; stone fences stretched across his way; here and there strips of dense woods interfered with but did not retard his speed or intention.

When he neared the house a curl of blue smoke told him where he would find Mistress Whitman, nor was he mistaken. He trotted straight to the kitchen window at which he was wont to receive goodies from her generous hands; there she stood, slender and womanish, beside a pot of soup, hanging on the crane, whose warm fragrance permeated the air.

True whinneyed sharply. She looked up, and, seeing the empty saddle, started with anxiety and hastened out. The horse rubbed his nose on her sleeve and neighed his message, softly.

She seemed to understand the horse-language at once and, leading him to the horse-block, climbed into the saddle without delay.

And this was True’s first experience of carrying a lady! She was so light of weight, and she spoke to him so fearlessly, that he drew much comfort through his bridle-rein. He started off at an even canter not hesitating at his stable door, though it must have been hard to pass the appetizing sound of Gipsey and Ceph munching at their supper.

This time he took the road, in a long smooth gait, and after a short time reached the strip of woods where Silas had been left.

Master Whitman, thin and very bright of eye, was sitting up now, and seemed much better, so his good wife aided him to mount the horse and climbed up behind him; thus they set out toward home, and True had his first experience of “carrying double.”

What a supper the “pony” had that night!

Oats, dry as pease, corn and carrots, a little flaxseed jelly, and chopped hay springled with salt.

’Twas a supper fit for Eclipse, himself!

FOOTNOTES:

[3] Eclipse and O’Kelly, page 88; Theodore Andrea Cook, M. A., F. S. A.

[4] In 1891 President Benj. Harrison attended a meeting of The Association of Road and Trotting Horse Breeders, at White River Junction, Vermont. In the course of his remarks on that occasion he said: “I understand that it was so arranged that after I had seen the flower of manhood and womanhood in Vermont I should be given an exhibition of the next grade in intelligence and worth in the State—​your good horses. I had, recently, through the intervention of my Secretary of War, the privilege of coming into possession of a pair of Vermont horses. They are all I could wish for, and, as I said the other day at the little village from which they came, they are of good Morgan stock, of which some one has said, ‘their greatest characteristic is that they enter into consultation with the driver, or rider, whenever there is a difficulty.’”—​The Morgan Horse, page 27, Joseph Battell.

CHAPTER III.

CEPH’S UNHAPPY FATE.

Never had Ceph been treated kindly by anyone; he’d never had “half a chance in life,” as Gipsey said. Nobody ever praised him, everybody blamed him, and he had nothing but blows and hard words for his portion. Even his food, which always came irregularly, had to be gobbled, for fear time enough to eat it comfortably would not be given him! Nobody ever rubbed him down when he was hot and tired, and his work was harder and more exacting than that of the other two.

For the most part he took it philosophically, with only an occasional groan until, perhaps, he saw better food measured out for his neighbors than was measured out for him, then he stamped and grunted and sometimes bit at them, crossly.

For many years he had been subject to spavin, at times his hock swelled badly and he went lame and limped painfully. At last Silas could close his eyes no longer to the fact that unless something were done for the old horse he would become entirely useless.

In Springfield a horse doctor lived who knew, among other things, how to “fire” a spavined hock. True had once seen this man thrust a sharp knife into a horse’s mouth who had lampers; the flow of warm red blood had made the colt shudder and, remembering this, he was very sorry when he found out this cruel person was to visit Ceph.

Gipsey recalled that this Dr. Quack had once been sent for to see a neighbor’s suffering cow; he arrived, looking wise and solemn, and declared the cow had a disease called “hollow-horn.” He thereupon split her tail lengthwise and filled the raw opening with salt and pepper.[5]

The poor cow died, and none but her barn-mates knew the distressing fact that she had really died of “hollow stomach,” not “hollow horn,” because their owner was so cruelly economical with food!

It was with no little sorrow that True recognized the coarse, rasping voice of the “doctor” when he came to see Ceph late one evening.

Through a crack in their darkening stalls True espied the red-hot crow-bar, and the guttering tallow dip Silas had lighted and brought from the kitchen.

Piebald Ceph had always been a mild-tempered horse, but scarce had the firing-iron touched his hock than he sent it—​and the candle—​flying into the hayloft, with an unexpected and well-directed kick.

Before a horse could have whinneyed the place was in flames, the dry hay dropping in blazing bunches from overhead.

A diabolic scene followed!

Seconds passed like hours.

True jerked his halter loose in terror, snapping the rope sharply; his heart almost ceased to beat, he was so frightened. Gipsey, locked in her stall, uttered a scream, as horses sometimes do when overcome with fear: old Ceph, crowding into the extreme corner of his stable, groaned pitifully.

It was like a roaring furnace, the heat intense, the smoke suffocating.

The shouting of the men was drowned in the confused mingling of horrible sounds as the flames leaped and licked the dry hay and caught the well-seasoned timbers.

The horrid odor of burnt hair, a sudden silence in Ceph’s stall, told a heart-rending tale. The echoes of his mother’s cry had hardly died away when True felt a cool, wet cloth thrown over his eyes and held tightly; something struck him violently, and a voice spoke to him in such a tone of command that he forgot everything and, trembling like a leaf, allowed himself to be led into the outer air.

Then, vaguely at first, he recognized Mistress Whitman’s tones, soothing now, and tender, albeit very shaky!

“Come, my little pet, there’s naught to fear now!”

And, trusting her, the colt followed tractably enough as she led him up two stone steps into the kitchen and took the bandage from his eyes.

Then she hurried out, closing the door tight.

An awful crash, a sudden greater roar, then ominous silence—​the barn roof had fallen in!

“Alas, my poor mother!” groaned True.

The rattling of a tin pan at his side made him turn; to his everlasting joy he saw Gipsey, safe and sound as himself, shut up in the kitchen.

Gipsey was an excitable mare, and began to prance about the place in an unseemly way, switching kettles and pewter pots off the table with her nervous tail and knocking them to the floor with a monstrous racket.

Finally she pushed the cover from the swinging pot on the crane. Luckily the fire had been out some time and the delicious contents of the pot barely warm, else she would have had her nose burned. The odor of the mash proved very enticing and she was greedily, or maybe thoughtlessly, about to drink it all, when True pushed her one side, as if to remind her of her manners, and finished it himself—​little dreaming, either one of them, it was the Whitman’s frugal supper.

During their feast the uproar outside had subsided, and in a little while Silas and his wife came in, saying it was all over with poor old Ceph.

The noses of the two rescued horses were gray and greasy with the rich mash, but in the thankfulness of their escape the Whitmans cared nothing for that. Mistress Whitman put her cheek against True’s soupy face and sobbed in a very womanish way for joy at his being spared to them.

The young horse submitted patiently to her caresses, though her hair, looking like dry, crisp hay, smelled mortally of smoke; he saw it was a comfort to her woman-heart to hang about his neck and murmur softly in his ear:

“True, dear little horse,” she whispered. “It doesn’t matter about Ceph.”

“There it is again,” thought True. “Nobody cares whether poor old Ceph is burnt up or not.”

And nobody did, as long as Gipsey and he were saved.

FOOTNOTES:

[5] Once a common practice among the negroes of the South.

CHAPTER IV.

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.

CHAPTER V.

TRUE MEETS HIS FATHER.

“‘Oh, ’twas a joyful sound to hear,

Our tribes devoutly say,

Up Israel, to the Temple haste,

And keep your festal day!’”

It was Justin Morgan, singing his favorite hymn, in his light tenor voice, and True pointed his ears to better hear the agreeable sound.

Master Morgan was not a strong man physically, and his ways were those of a scholar and student, but he was lovable and staunch and true, and, lilting the stave of “Mear” he set out on the road to the southward.

Along the bank of the tranquil river stretched the highway to Hartford, and it was Master Morgan’s plan to exhibit his new horse at the great fair so soon to be held in that fine city.

It was near sunset when they arrived, and True stepped out so smartly, and Justin Morgan, being a great rider, the people paused in the streets to admire them, as they cantered easily on to the public stable to rest and refresh themselves.

True’s name was now changed to “Figure,” the name once borne by a famous horse, dead some years since; and under this name he came to be known through the columns of that very respected paper, The Hartford Courant.

“Next to his own father, sir,” True heard the hostler say, as he led him into a stall and snapped the catch of the halter into the ring. “Now what do you think of that? The horse in the next box, sir, is Mr. Selah Norton’s Beautiful Bay, him that was True Briton.”

Master Morgan looked in at the splendid animal and said, “Oh, the De Lancey horse, eh? A fine fellow he is still, I see, in spite of his age. Well, all I can say is, mine is the ‘worthy son of a worthy sire’!”

True quivered. Already the great world was offering adventure and reward. Crowding through his veins the fire of his father’s race throbbed and surged, his mane shook and he flicked his waving tail with eager anticipation. His alert ears pointed back and forth with attention, his eyes glowed and his wide nostrils trembled as he inhaled the scent of his father for the first time. Proud and vigorous, he pawed the floor to attract Beautiful Bay; now and then he glanced with feigned carelessness through a wide crack.

Full soon he was rewarded by a sight of the gleaming eye of his neighbor at the same aperture.

For a moment they gazed in silence; then True took a step forward, and raising his nose to the top of the partition met the firm tip of his father’s.

Without further demonstration an affection sprang up between the two.

In the course of time the hostler came to lead the new horse out, in the deepening twilight, to show him to some visitors. The interest True took in the performance, one could be reasonably certain, was not on account of the visitors, but because he was well aware of his splendid father’s interest and admiration.

That night when all was quiet the old war-horse said:

“You are like your mother, my son, I remember her well—​and a fine, noble mare she was, to be sure. Her hoof beat music from the path and she struck the road with the same nervous tread that I see you have—​as a pigeon in full career repulses the air. She scoffed at hills and mounted them with a dash of spirited flight, as if she joyed in their difficulties.”

True recalled his mother’s admiration of his father, and his heart beat gratefully at these words. He, too, remembered Gipsey’s poetic motion, her rhythmic step, as if she trod an even melody, and her willingness to take a hill.

“As his name is, so is he,

If you believe not, come and see!”

So The Hartford Courant described Beautiful Bay, and the rhyme was a by-word about the town—​for they were very proud of Beautiful Bay in Hartford. It was not long before True heard the couplet in the stables, and right proud was he to be the son of so praised a father.

Beautiful Bay told True many stirring tales in the quiet nights they spent so close together, for the older horse had ever been a “soldier of Fortune” and his life one of constant change and excitement.

It was a great boast for a horse to say he had been bred in the De Lancey stables, for those De Lanceys, like Mahommed, had been lovers of horses, and their stables and half-mile running track, in the centre of what was so soon to be the very heart of the great city of New York, was the finest in the Northern Colonies before the War of the Revolution.

Gay blades were those De Lanceys, and their rightful inheritance was the sporting blood of old England, though they were, after all, part Huguenot, part Dutch, by ancestry.

Colonel De Lancey, True Briton’s first owner, had married a Mistress Van Courtlandt, whose family had a King and a Bishop at their backs, and occupied half the important posts under the crown. He was a rollicking, generous, reckless gentleman, at home alike in drawing room or on the course, but when, through stress of circumstances, this British officer had to change his mode of living, there was a sale of his horses at John Fowler’s Tavern, near the Tea-Water Pump, in Bowery Lane. All the favorites went but his especial saddle horse, True Briton—​who now frankly admitted to his son his worth and beauty in those days. Indeed, he seemed to have no false modesty about it at all, and confessed his superiority over all his stable-mates, even though among them there were such horses as Lath and Slamerkin.

According to the accounts of the old horse his youth had been spent in a time the like of which True could never see. He told of the gaily dressed dandies—​waiting on ladies in silks and satins and waving plumes—​at the meets; of the sudden seal of disapproval Congress had put upon the dissipations and extravagances of the race-course; of how the Annapolis Jockey Club had set the foolish fashion of economy by closing its course; of how the grass grew up in the one-time splendid Centre Course at Philadelphia.

But of all his anecdotes the tale of how True Briton became a true Patriot interested the young horse most, and ran in this wise:

Colonel De Lancey was stationed at Westchester with his regiment, which was known far and wide as “The Cow-Boys,” because they stole cattle from the “Skinners” (a name given the farmers at that time).

At last the latter resolved to appeal to the Colonel-in-command for a protection of their rights and property. Accordingly, “Skinner Smith” called upon Colonel De Lancey, a white handkerchief tied to a stick, to show a peaceful errand, and made complaint of the depredations of the “Cow-Boys.”

Now the Colonel, ever cool and gay, as became a De Lancey, cried out with a great laugh:

“These be the chances of war, my lack-beard. If my good soldiers need cattle, or food of other kind, and you will not give it to them, egad! they must steal it! Best curb your uncouth tongue and be gone!”

“Then, by my lack of beard!” quoth Skinner Smith, nettled—​he was an impudent young scamp, and feared no one—​“‘What is sauce for the goose, is sauce for the gander!’ If these be the ‘chances of war,’ look well to that fine horse of yours! I warn you fairly, others can be cattle stealers, too! I warn you fairly—​and now wish you a very good day.”

It chanced that under cover of darkness one night, shortly afterward, Colonel De Lancey rode to see his mother at some distance and left True Briton hitched at the door-step.

Young Smith, waiting his “chance of war,” sprang from behind a tree as the door of the house closed, unhitched the horse, leaped into the saddle and plunging spurs into True Briton’s sides—​who, wide of eye and red-nostrilled, sprang forward—​did not draw rein until he was well within the American lines.

The amazed and disgusted Colonel raised an alarm and roused his orderlies, but too late. He never saw his favorite again until one fine day he found himself incarcerated in the jail at Hartford with many another “Red-Coat.”

Beautiful Bay, then in the possession of Mr. Selah Norton, was standing in front of Bull’s Tavern, across Meeting House Green.

“Blood will tell, in men as well as horses,” finished Beautiful Bay. “When Colonel De Lancey recognized me he threw me a laughing greeting and a wave of the hand. I could almost hear what his parted lips were saying: ‘The chance of war, my friend!’”

CHAPTER VI.

TRUE GAZES UPON MISTRESS LLOYD, OF MARYLAND.

The following day, laughter and talk outside the stable announced that several persons had come to visit the horses.

It chanced that among them was that brilliant quartette of men, known as the “Hartford Wits,” with Master Trumbull at their head.

The latter stood chatting with a mere slip of a girl, dark-eyed and merry. In her hand she carried a fine, thread-lace kerchief—​like gossamer films at dawn—​and a pouf of gauze fell away from her snowy throat. She wore a perriot of flowered taffeta trimmed with herrisons, and from beneath her petticoat two little slippered feet peeped shyly. She was the most radiant being True had ever seen. Enraptured, he followed her with his eyes whichever way she turned. For all her beauty, she was yet strong and fine in her promise of fuller womanhood. There was a quick certainty about her every movement, and a steadiness of eye that showed no indeterminate character.

Near her stood a Coxcomb, filling the air with odors of musk and powders, offensive to the nostrils of the little horse who was led past him. A secret loathing for this popinjay was born in his heart which he never outgrew.

“Ah, Mistress Lloyd,” said the Coxcomb, drawling his words disagreeably, and waving a scented lace-bordered handkerchief, “what say you to Beautiful Bay? Have your kinsmen, Carroll of Carrollton, or the Hon. Edward Lloyd—​or, for the matter of that, the dashing Tom Dulaney—​anything finer at their country-seats in Maryland? Is there anything in Virginia, or South Carolina, to compare with our Beautiful Bay?”

Smiling, the maid stepped in front of Beautiful Bay and held out a slender pink palm—​like the petals of wild roses True had seen on his way from Springfield—​on it lay a bit of maple sugar, and right proudly the old horse arched his neck and ate from her hand, picking up the crumbs with his firm but flexible lips, that his hard teeth might not scar the tender flesh.

With her dainty kerchief she flicked his side lightly, replying evasively:

“We’ve nothing better groomed.” Turning to her father she cried gaily, “Come hither, Daddy, dear, and touch his satin coat!”

Beautiful Bay pranced a little to show his appreciation.

“Have a care, my child,” warned her father.

Her laughter rippled forth as she drew Beautiful Bay’s muzzle down for a caress.

“It would not bite a maiden’s cheek, would it?” she cooed in his ready ear, and he trembled with joy at the sound. Young Mistress Lloyd’s “way with horses” was known from Maryland to Boston.

The Coxcomb flicked his riding boot impatiently with his whip. This annoyed Beautiful Bay, who, thinking to please the maid, turned abruptly to him and bared his teeth, flattening his ears.

The popinjay sprang to one side.

“He can’t abide smells!” explained the hostler, apologetically, as he led the old horse back into his stable.

And this was the first time that True saw Mistress Lloyd, of Maryland; though she had taken no notice of him, he never forgot it.

Deeply attached did the two horses become to each other, and Old Worldly-Wise taught Young Innocence much that was afterwards of use to him. He told him of the city, where men sat, far into the night, and played cards or other games by the glare of torchlight or wax candle; of how they danced with or serenaded fair ladies till cock-crow. It contrasted strangely with True’s former quiet nights and peaceful days in the Valley of the Connecticut, but it interested him intensely and awakened longings within him.

He marvelled to see Beautiful Bay active and spirited enough at his age to clear a five-barred gate like a greyhound, and to see his bearing under the saddle alike youthful and stylish.

The old horse had a fund of anecdotes to impart about the Desert and its traditions.

“Arabs,” he said, “think it wicked to change their coursers into beasts of burden and tillage. Why did Allah make the ox for the plough and the camel to transport merchandise, if not that the horse was for the race?”

True had no answer ready, so Beautiful Bay continued: