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  The singing master didn’t want two more mouths to feed any more than he wanted water in his hat, but two colts were better than nothing at all. “Perchance,” he thought, as he led the colts all the way back to Randolph, “I can sell them for the dollars the farmer owed me.”

  He did sell the big colt, right away, but no one would buy the little one. “Too small,” everyone said. Finally he rented the colt to a farmer for a few silver dollars a year. The new master worked him hard—pulling stumps out of the earth, dragging logs, plowing. But, at the end of each day, he was as upheaded and gay as if he had done nothing more than frisk in a pasture. He was ready for anything—even for pulling contests. One night he pulled a log that draft horses and oxen couldn’t even budge. He pulled not only the log but three hefty men who sat astride it. He won races, too, from Thoroughbreds. He was draft horse, harness horse, race horse, all in one. He could walk faster, trot faster, run faster, and pull heavier logs than any other horse in Vermont.

  When the singing master died, his name was tacked on to the little horse. Justin Morgan, he was called. And his colts and grandcolts, too, became known as Morgans. There was a strange thing about his descendants. Whether they were brown or bay or black, they all had the same round barrel, the same closely coupled body, the same full neck, the same compact look. What was more, they had the same eagerness to go. All-purpose horses, they were called. They helped to pioneer when America was growing up, and they helped to win her wars.

  And so the horse that was too little grew to be the foundation sire of the very first American breed. Today, Morgan horses are used by mounted policemen and wherever else a plucky, honest horse is wanted.

  Had the singing master lived to see his little colt’s descendants, what a stirring song he could have sung about heroes like Skippy!

  The Standardbred

  WHEN INDIAN TRAILS THROUGH THE wilds of America were widened out into roads, then wagons were built and men began to drive as well as to ride their horses. Picture a stalwart pioneer setting off with his family in the go-to-meeting wagon. Driving proudly down the road he helped to build, he hears hoofbeats coming from behind. Instinctively he clucks to his horse, slaps the lines, and suddenly it’s a race! With wagons careening, dust billowing, children yelling, “Go it, Pa!” the two horses settle down to the business of matching speed for speed.

  From these friendly brushes on the road America’s own sport of harness racing was born, and our forefathers created a breed expressly for it. Farmers in and about Orange County, New York, discovered that if they bred their mares to a stallion named Rysdyk’s Hambletonian, the foals were natural trotters instead of runners.

  “See those opposite feet strike out together!” the farmers would exclaim. “It’s downright remarkable. Hambletonian has the blood of runners in him. Doesn’t he go back to the Darley Arabian?”

  He did, indeed! Yet his colts and grandcolts showed speed at the trot instead of at the gallop. Today almost all trotters owe their action to Hambletonian’s blood. Each year The Hambletonian, a great race, is held in his honor. It is as well attended as the Kentucky Derby, and sometimes the purse is even larger.

  Upon Hambletonian’s death trotting-horse admirers formed a club, and their rules were as American in spirit as the sport itself. Performance, not lineage, was the standard that counted. If a horse could trot the mile in two minutes and a half, or better, he could be registered. This new breed was named Standardbred because each horse had been bred to a standard of speed.

  Since then harness-racing parks have sprung up in little and big cities alike. But the homespun country flavor is still there. Instead of flyweight jockeys the drivers are often white-haired substantial men who have bred and trained the horses they race. There is a saying that when breeder-trainer-driver is one man, watch out for a champion!

  Such a one was Rosalind. And her famed handicap race brought out a great courage in the man, Ben White, and in the mare he trained. It is September 9, 1937. At the State Fair in Syracuse, New York, five horses are going to the post in the mile-and-a-half race, the All-American Trotting Handicap. One of the five is Rosalind. As she parades past the grandstand, men of the harness world are aware of her speed. Some watched her set a record in the Junior Kentucky Futurity. Some saw her win the Hambletonian as a three-year-old. Now they have all come to watch her race against the greatest handicap ever asked of a trotter. She must start 240 feet behind the wire, 60 feet behind the nearest horse.

  In the faces of the crowd is a look of wondering. Men shake their heads. “It’ll take heart, and plenty of it,” they say, “to go the distance.”

  Only one horse in all America would have been penalized more, and that was the mighty Greyhound. Colonel Baker, Greyhound’s owner, had refused to enter his horse in the race because he thought too much of the big gelding. “It’s an impossible handicap!” he had said. “A horse could spend his heart to win.”

  Sitting quietly in the sulky, Ben White knows the danger, too. He loves Rosalind. Has he not raised her from a newborn, raised her and her sire and dam, too? But purposefully he drives her out on the track, for he has more at stake than the life of Rosalind. His son’s life, too, is at stake. She had been given as a tiny foal to the boy when he was lying ill and lonely in a sanatorium. Her racing pluck had once helped him get well. Maybe, now that he has been stricken a second time, her winning against great odds will help him win his battle, too. It is a chance the father must take.

  The horses are heading for their stations: the two bay geldings, Friscomite and Fez, 120 feet behind the wire; Calumet Dilworthy and Lee Hanover, 180 feet. And still farther back—with the greatest penalty of all—Rosalind!

  Her driver’s eyes are dark and troubled. He is unmindful of the crowded grandstand. He sees only a boy looking bravely out across the desert.

  Now it is. Now, on this bright September day, at three o’clock in the afternoon. One o’clock mountain time. Rest time in hospitals. But one boy is not resting. He is holding the lines across the miles.

  The father shakes the image from his head, thinking again of Rosalind, his mind on her mind, in her mind. He and she have been bred to a standard of speed. This is the time to show it.

  Five horses get set on their marks—Rosalind poised for flight, trembling in her eagerness, straining toward the barrier. And now three barriers are sprung at the same instant, and as if some avalanche had let loose, the word “GO” roars from the stands.

  Five horses are off! And right at the start Calumet Dilworthy and Lee Hanover move with a rush, passing Fez who breaks into a gallop and is pulled back by his driver, then passing Friscomite.

  But Rosalind settles down to business, lengthens her stride. With a stroke of commanding power she reaches for Fez, inches up on him. She catches him and resolutely sweeps around him. Now she’s moving up on Friscomite, step by step, and before the first turn she’s passing him. And around the turn she matches stride with Calumet Dilworthy, goes eye to eye with him, then trots past him, too. At the quarter-mile pole only Lee Hanover is ahead, only Lee Hanover making it a race.

  The father appears calm yet every nerve in his body is alive, every nerve traveling through the lines to Rosalind: “Now, girl, we’re about to take the lead. Now we’re going out in front.” Steadily she gains on Lee Hanover, then skims by him, her stroke fine and square.

  She’s in the lead at the half-mile! Rosalind with the greatest handicap is on top! Ben White looks at his watch. One minute and ten seconds for the half-mile, with the handicap tucked in. She’s taking the track for her own, flying along as if all that anchors her to earth is the sulky and the man sitting quietly in it.

  The father’s breath comes faster. The longest yards in any race are at the finish. He turns his head to see Lee Hanover coming out of nowhere, making a wild bid for the lead, coming up on Rosalind, gaining, gaining, now pressing her hard.

  He reaches for his whip. He has to—a boy is waiting! He taps his beloved filly.

  Ro
salind feels the flick of the whip, feels the movement of the bit in her mouth. What’s wrong? She’s gone the mile, yet. . . . The whip? The bit? Hoof beats thundering hard by? Now she knows. It’s not over! Lee Hanover is on her, but she won’t be overtaken! From deep within comes one mite more of strength, and with a burst of speed she crosses the finish line, a nose in the lead.

  Ben White clicks his stop watch. In three minutes, twelve and one-quarter seconds Rosalind has trotted the mile and a half, plus her handicap. She has set a new record for the distance; she has done the impossible.

  Smiling, the father accepts the shining trophy, but his mind is busy elsewhere. He has a message to send. “Ten words will do it,” he thinks. “Ten flinty, big-going words, big as the mare’s twenty-foot stride.”

  ROSALIND WINS HER HANDICAP RACE IN DRIVING FINISH. YOU, SON?

  The boy won over his handicap, too. He did get well—a second time. And even his doctors agreed that, for him, horse medicine was the best kind of all.

  The American Saddle Horse

  THE LITTLE OLD MAN SHUFFLED into the grandstand and looked around happily. Sometimes a fellow had to do things on the spur of the moment, like stopping off at the State Fair. Made him feel coltish. It had been a long time since he’d seen a good show for his money. A warm feeling came over him as he opened his program to the same page as the other folks had theirs. He could read the big type without his glasses. SADDLE HORSE DIVISION—OPEN FIVE-GAITED CLASS. He wouldn’t bother with the tiny flyspeck type. Didn’t know horses or riders any more anyway.

  The announcer’s voice cut in. “Reverse your horses, please. We will now repeat all five gaits going clockwise of the ring. Trot your horses, please.”

  The old man let himself be lost in the ring. Bay horses, a gray, sorrel horses with flaxen tails, sorrels with dark tails. And then, flashing from behind, a blue-black stallion—his coat shining like a beetle in the sun.

  “Shades of Rex McDonald!” the old man gasped, his eyes fondling the animal as if some dream had suddenly taken form.

  He sat bolt upright, his mind leaping across the years. He was a young man, watching a young horse. No! He was that horse. That blue-black bullet, prancing around the rings, all over Kentucky, all over Missouri. Walking, trotting, cantering, stepping, racking. He was grand champion of the world. He was Rex McDonald!

  Eyes fixed on the black image, he fumbled for gold-rimmed glasses, found them, put them on. Now for a look at the entries’ names. Number Seven—Rex Midnight. “The blood is there; his blood!”

  Bay horses, sorrel horses, horses with white markings. Colors blurred in the old man’s eyes like raindrops coming together on a windowpane. How long had they been trotting down there in the ring? One minute? Five minutes? That girl on Number Seven. “Let ’im go, girl. Pick the snaffle to set his head. You’re plucking a harpstring, girl. Be delicate fingered.”

  The announcer’s voice was a quick patter in time to the trot. “It’s an open class, ladies and gentlemen. Open to horses of all ages, open to all riders.”

  Oldtimer’s eyes were everywhere at once, comparing, judging. That sorrel with the flaxen tail. Mostly looks. He felt an elbow in his ribs, heard a young voice say, “Look at that black beauty pop his hocks! He’s good fore and aft!”

  Pride welled up in the old man. “ ’Course he’s good. Got Rex McDonald’s blood.”

  “Too bad he’s slow, though.”

  “Slow? He ain’t slow! See that sorrel trotting in front and hopping behind? That’s what happens when you take ’em on too fast.”

  Along the rail grooms and owners were crying to the riders as they went by. “Set his head! Take him on! Gather him!”

  The old man cried out, too. “Just let him tromp, girl!” But his voice was lost in the boom of the loud-speaker.

  “Walk your horses. Let them walk, please.”

  Twice around the ring. All the horses going airy and bright.

  Oldtimer caught snatches of talk around him.

  “Only two amateurs riding, the man on the gray and the girl on the black.”

  “The black won all his junior contests last year.”

  “Sure he did, but the trainer showed him then. What can a spindling girl do in big competition?”

  The old man bristled. “What can she do? She can let her horse do it, that’s what.” He ran gnarled fingers through his white thatch, remembering when Rex McDonald walked like this, bouncy-like. But his mind was on tiptoe, waiting. Any good Saddlebred could do the natural gaits. The test was yet to come.

  “Canter your horses, please. The judge likes rhythm here, not speed, folks.”

  Impatiently the old man watched the rocking horses down there in the ring, traveling slowly, smooth as a waltz, never speeding up. He took a breath, waiting.

  “Walk your horses again, please.”

  Twice around. All the horses brisk. No one wilting but the old man. He loosened his tie, stuffed it into his pocket, his eyes on the announcer’s box.

  “Now slow-gait your horses, please.”

  At last! Here it is! The difficult man-made gait, the gait that leads up to something. The slow motion, the inheld power. The blue-black lifting the left forefoot, holding it poised one split second. Lifting the left hind foot, holding it as if he spurned the earth beneath. Now the right fore high, now the right hind. Up, hesitate; up, hesitate. The girl on Number Seven is smiling. She can feel each beat of the gait. She knows it’s right. It’s the stepping pace.

  The old man laughs out. “Look at that black devil with the angel on his back—she can make him strut in front and squat behind!” He nudges the ribs next to him. “Young fellow, see that creature walking uphill on a flat piece of ground? There he is, that blue-black Number Seven.”

  Suddenly the old man grows fearful. He wants yet dreads the next words. He tries to stay them, but they burst forth splitting the air like a bugle.

  “Rack on!”

  Bay horses, a gray, sorrel horses. The old man sweeps them all away. Sure. They know the rack is the steppin’ pace set to full speed. They can do it. They’re all five-gaiters, ain’t they? But with the sweat-gleaming black the rack seems not a gait at all. It is a kind of glory. He is scudding clouds instead of tanbark, sailing along, passing other horses as if they did not exist. Suddenly at the turn a sorrel cuts in, almost causing a collision. It’s the sorrel ahead now, the black trailing.

  But on the straightaway. . . . “By gum, look at Rex pass! He’s racking a hole in the ground, leading the whole dang parade!”

  The old man is tiring. “Rex can’t keep it up forever, judge! Don’t you know the strain of it? Tendons ain’t pistons, judge. Don’t you know it?”

  And then, when he can stand it no longer, the loud voice comes to his rescue. “Walk your horses, please. Walk your horses.”

  A wave of relief washes over the old man. The riders too relax, and the girl gives a saucy flirt of her coattails. He shouts out to her, “Well done, Black Angel!” But he is not alone. The crowd is shouting, too, trying to fill in the eternity of moments while the judge slowly marks his card, slowly steps up to the announcer.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice raps out, “we now have the judge’s decision. The blue and the trophy go. . . .”

  A lump rises in the old man’s throat, but his lips cry the words in unison with the announcer: “—to Number Seven!”

  Spent and happy, the little old man puts on his tie, squares his hat on his head, and shuffles down out of the grandstand. What a show he’s seen for his money!

  That’s how it is with Saddlebred horses. They are the world’s greatest show horses. Beautiful outside and game inside. Today’s Number Seven would lack that touch of greatness had it not been for Rex McDonald and others like him. There are others, you know. But don’t let the little old man hear you say so. There’s Denmark Number One, foundation sire of the breed. His was Thoroughbred blood and he transmitted his fire to Rex and to the blue-black, too.

  The American
Saddle Horse, with his refinement of gaits and his animation and beauty, does not belong just to his owner or trainer. He belongs to the show ring, where he can bring joy and thrills to thousands of “ringside riders.” He is like a Caruso, like any great artist. He belongs to the wide world—to you and to me and to the little old man crying his lungs out for Number Seven.

  The Tennessee Walking Horse

  DON’T LET THE NAME MISLEAD you, for the Tennessee Walking Horse is anything but a heavy-footed nag that can go only a snail’s pace. He has, among his three gaits, a running walk as fast and smooth as running water. Because of its gliding motion it gives the rider the sensation of skimming along on a magic carpet.

  Thoroughbred champions run the mile in about a minute and a half. Standardbred champions trot or pace a mile in two minutes. Then, after their race or heats are over, both these champions are through for the day. But the average Tennessee Walking Horse can do the same running walk for several hours at a time, traveling six to eight miles per hour. He is bred not for a flash of speed but for sustained travel, in comfort to his rider and to himself.

  What is this contradictory term, the running walk? It is speed from a walk, and actually it is a variation of the trot. Diagonal legs work almost in unison, the left forehoof touching the ground an instant earlier than the right hind. And here is the secret of the speed—the hind foot comes forward well beyond the right front hoofprint, sometimes as much as twenty-four inches! The greater the overstride, the faster and smoother the action.

  This running walk is a normal gait for the Walking Horse, and he enters into it with animation. His head nods in timing with his feet, and his ears swing, and sometimes he snaps his teeth so loud they click like castanets. Onlookers often draw back in alarm at the sound, not realizing that the horse is merely swinging to the motion with every muscle he has.