Justin Morgan, founder of his race: The Romantic History of a Horse

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!’”