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  In spite of all this animation the gait is steady enough for a rider to hold a glass of water on the palm of his hand without spilling a drop.

  The foundation of the running walk is the slower flatfoot walk with the same trotting action. This is a bold-going gait, straightforward and square on all four corners. And even though the horse’s head nods as he steps along, he is far from dozing. He is traveling four or five miles an hour! The nodding is just part of the relaxed rhythm which makes the gait free and easy—to himself and to his rider.

  The fastest of his three gaits is the rocking-chair canter, or refined gallop. It has a rolling joyousness about it—a high, bounding, elastic movement. Owners of the Walking Horse boast of his footwork at this gait; he can canter straight between crop rows or around an apple barrel without missing a beat, they say.

  For a hundred years or more the Tennessee Walking Horse has been unique in his action and in his services. In early days, when plantations sprawled out to meet sky lines, owners wanted a mount that could easily go forty or fifty miles, day after day. They wanted one with comfortable gaits, with a springiness that would take the jolts for the rider. So, first and foremost, the Walking Horse was a plantation horse; in fact, today he often is called the Plantation Walker.

  Circuit riders used the Walking Horse, too. They were the traveling preachers who rode from one little white-spired church to another. Of worldly goods they had none. Their black suits were shiny and threadbare, and sometimes they had no homes at all. But they knew horseflesh as they knew the Bible, and their mounts were the fastest and truest walkers in the countryside. They had to be! Fifty miles to one church, fifty miles to the next. And between the two the road no more than a cowpath—full of gullies and “thank-you ma’ams” and winding creeks that were rivers in floodtime. The circuit horse was a smart one, timing himself to arrive at the little community just when the church bells were pealing. Then he dozed during services, for he had heard the sermon many times before. The preacher, as he rode, would practice his text loud and long. And whether the sermon was hellfire and damnation or green pastures and still waters, always his horse nodded and nodded in approval.

  The country doctor, too, rode forth on a Walking Horse, his saddlebag bulging with blue pills and pink pills and bottles and bandages. On dark nights, on muddy roads, through driving rains or gales of wind—he made his calls. In the sickroom ears listened for the familiar running gait, and at the first sound of the one-two, three-four beat, pain and fear began to lift.

  What is he, this horse that walks a hole in the wind? What and where were his beginnings? Nearly two hundred years ago adventurous Americans rode over the mountains from Virginia and the Carolinas into Tennessee. They carried their Bible in one hand and their musket in the other—which made them very good riders, indeed, for they must have done all their guiding with knees and heels. The horses they rode were sturdy saddle stock, and a few were Thoroughbreds. The Morgans and the Standardbreds filtered in, too, and soon the middle basin of Tennessee became a melting pot in which four great horse families mingled to make one family. Each breed contributed specific traits, and the result, surprisingly, was a breed with distinctive characteristics. The Thoroughbred family gave strength and stamina, and the Saddlebred comfortable gaits. Hambletonian blood contributed stride. As for the Morgan blood—this gave the Walking Horse his quiet disposition and gentle manners.

  In order to have a registry one stallion was selected as a foundation sire. He was Black Allan, and his pedigree is as nice a bit of Americana as one could find. On his father’s side he was a great-great-grandson of Rysdyk’s Hambletonian, and his mother was a great-great-granddaughter of Justin Morgan. Thus he sprang from two fine American breeds. Maggie Marsh, his mother, was famed in her day as a high-going trotter, and everyone expected her little black son would follow in her hoofprints. He, however, had ideas of his own. He wanted to pace, and pace he did. And so, in disgrace, he was traded in the back country for cows and donkeys. Yet he sired more beautiful and true Walking Horses than any other stallion.

  In family albums owners of Tennessee Walking Horses point with pride to their ancestors and the horses they rode. Grandmother sitting sidesaddle on Strolling Jo, her Walking Horse, reins in one hand, basket of eggs in the other, and two grandchildren up behind. Off to town they go, nary an egg cracked, nary a child upset. Grandpa used Strolling Jo, too, for plowing, often teaming him up with some long-eared mule. And teacher, Cousin Kate, rode him to the little red schoolhouse, where as many children climbed aboard as could get seating room. Apparently good-natured Jo had no load limit.

  Today, the Walking Horse is by no means limited to Tennessee. The offspring of Black Allan are everywhere. They are today’s pleasure horses, the gentle mounts for business and professional people who are not interested in racing over hill and dale on a highstrung horse. For them the running walk or the rocking-chair canter is speed enough. For them the companionship and comfort are pleasure enough. An owner once said that his horse reminded him of a lightning rod, for, as he rode, all the sorrows in his heart flowed down through the splendid muscles of his horse and were grounded in the earth.

  Small wonder he thought of his horse as his other self!

  The Hackney

  THE HACKNEY IS A HIGH-STEPPER. Even going off on a picnic, he lifts his knees and hocks to incredible heights, as if judges’ eyes might be peering out at him from every leafy bough. He is born for the show ring, and so inbred is his exaggerated action that he never, never lets down.

  Families may forget their own comforts on picnics. Sometimes even spoons and paper cups and a cushion for Mamma are left at home. But the needs of the Hackneys are seldom overlooked. From colthood on they must be pampered because the show ring calls for a fine silky coat and a docked tail.

  At the height of the picnic, when children and grownups are slapping at mosquitoes, the Hackneys stand cool and regal in their fly-scrim hoods and sheets. They nibble daintily on the leaves of some tender young tree while an adoring boy and girl shoo away the flies. No sultan on his throne or queen on her couch could have more solicitous attendants.

  Docked tails cause extra work for owners and grooms, but the custom is of such long standing that it just goes on. Actually, the tail of a Hackney, if left alone, would be big and bushy, entirely out of keeping with his sleek elegance.

  It is an ill wind, however, that blows nobody good, and in at least one instance tail docking helped to make a champion. Captivation was a twitchy, nervous filly with a tail as bushy as a squirrel’s. Every time the wind blew, it whipped that tail around her flanks and sent her into a frenzy. She acted as if each individual hair gave off an electric shock. But with her tail docked, and with gentle training, she lost her nervousness and became the darling of the show rings. Whenever the ringmaster began separating the blue ribbon from the others, she would step right out to meet him, knowing she had won.

  At Madison Square Garden, at the Chicago International, at all the major shows you see two types of Hackneys, the big bold horses and the dainty little ponies. Both are registered in the same stud book, both are bred for the show ring, and both are built so similarly that the horses look like blown-up pictures of the ponies. Full made they are, stoutly built in proportion to their height, with rather short legs of immense power. Yet in spite of their robust build, horse and pony both are full of jauntiness and grace. It is no trick at all to find a well-matched pair because many are chestnut or brown with showy white socks. Those socks are washed so frequently that the moment a groom comes in sight with a bucket of suds, up comes a white forefoot.

  In England, where the Hackney originated, he was not always this cleanly washed and pampered pet. In the old coaching days he splashed through mud and mire until his white socks must have been a sight. The sorry condition of the roads may have prompted the Hackney to pick his feet high. And his mud-matted tail may have prompted the coachman to dock it.

  Before these so-called roads were built, ancesto
rs of the coach horse were ridden instead of driven. Often, besides their stout riders, they had to carry cages of live geese to market and return with farm tools and skipples of salt, not to mention dolls and fripperies. With all these burdens they managed to show speed at the trot. And they were called Old Norfolk Trotters for the county in which they were bred.

  The Old Norfolk Trotter was as good and substantial as a loaf of bread. Then horse fanciers decided more yeast was needed. They wanted the loaf to rise higher. And so they mated their good Norfolk mares to the spirited sons of the Darley Arabian. The result was a horse of animation and speed, a lively and high-going stepper. The breed caught on like fire in the wind. In fact, a whole line of descendants was called the Fireaways. America began importing them at once and they became the fashionable park steppers, driven by daring young dandies known as “whips.”

  The coming of railroads might have put an end to the Hackney’s career if, in the spring of 1893, England had not held a magnificent Hackney exhibition. There were Hackneys in hand and Hackneys in harness, and they enthralled the spectators with their powerful action, fore and aft.

  Almost from that date on the Hackney was bred for exhibition purposes and he took to his new role with relish. He seemed a born showman, and age only whetted his zeal for the spotlight. At fourteen the famous Cadet Commander displayed as much fire and flash as at his first show. And the judges liked him just as well. In fact, many Hackneys seem to go better with “a little age on them.”

  Preparation for the show ring takes years. The Hackney’s real training begins at the age of three, when many race horses are retired. Day after day, at the end of a long rein, he trots around and around in a great circle. It is months before he is even hooked to a cart and years before he is ready for the ring.

  Appearance is almost as important as action, and a Hackney stable is a twenty-four-hour-a-day beauty shop. In every stall, all up and down the aisle, the ponies and horses have their tails done up in fail sets so that they will look very jaunty in the show ring. A pony with heavy jowls is tied up in a jowl strap, much like a lady in a chin strap. The too plump pony wears a leather muzzle over her own to keep her from nibbling between meals. The big Hackney with the leather bib under his chin is a worrier. He worries and picks at his nightcover unless he wears the bib.

  Hear the wood rattlers? Those are anklets made of large wooden beads. Of course, the ponies try to kick them off and, in so doing, raise their knees and hocks extremely high. All unknowingly they are tuning up their action.

  It is good to know that most Hackneys do not need ankle rattlers. The main part of their action is natural. A colt of six weeks sometimes dances around his mother, knobby knees almost bumping his chin whiskers.

  But some youngsters grow lazy as they grow up, and they are the ones that respond to trainers’ riggings. With regular sash cord the trainer ties an overshoe on each of the colt’s fore hoofs and threads the cord through rings on the bellyband. Presto! He has as fine an action developer as any colt needs.

  Now, with the cord slack, out of the stable he goes for his first high-stepping lesson. The trainer clucks softly and, as the colt raises his left leg to step out, he pulls up on the cord with studied care. The colt, without any effort on his part, lifts his leg a tiny fraction higher than normal. The instant he lets his leg down, the trainer releases the cord and then helps to pull the other leg up. Away they go around the ring—for the left foot, pull up, release; for the right, pull up, release. Left; right. Left; right. The lesson is only a few minutes long today. A few minutes more tomorrow.

  And then one day the cord is left hanging on its peg in the stable, and now comes the test. The owner and grooms gather around. The trainer tries to cluck as if this day were no different from all the others. The long second. And suddenly the colt starts off. Straight up goes the left foot, twenty inches in the air, then the right its exact twin of motion. Up, down, up, down go the violent little trip hammers. The miracle is complete! Our colt has graduated, and his diploma is a nice long carrot, complete with greens and all.

  The trainer’s face broadens into a grin, and he heaves a great sigh of relief. In this one moment all the monotony of daily discipline is washed away.

  From today on the pattern of high action is impressed upon the colt’s mind and muscles forever. But training days are not over. As long as he is traveling the show circuit, a great Hackney, like a great athlete, has to keep in trim—showman and champion to the end.

  The Percheron

  IN THE BACK YARD OF the circus a dappled Gray keeps one ear tuned for the bugle call. The bugle is his clock. It rings an alarm bell inside him, starts off his real day. Soon now; any time now. He listens, grinding his hay slowly, ears pricked. There it is! That sweet brassy discord—ta ta, ti-ti-ti, ta de, dum dum!

  He lets his wisp of hay fall to the sawdust, then shudders his coat, almost preening. It is his way of saying, “I’m ready.” All up and down the horse tent the animals are listening to the stabbing notes. Thoroughbreds are pawing the sawdust, snorting and neighing. But the Gray stands quietly, anticipating the chain of events, each in precisely the right order. At sight of his groom he plants his feet solidly, lowers his head, letting big hands rub rosin on his back, enjoying the feel of long sweeping strokes from withers to tail, again and again.

  Next the girthstrap is fastened around his belly, while out in the big tent the band strikes up. Noisy. Throbbing. Brasses wide open, playing the people in. Melody after melody floats out of the big top. Then a lull, and again the bugle! The Gray recognizes his second call. He strides boldly out of his tent, heading for the back door of the big top, almost pulling his groom along.

  The show is on! The Grand Spectacle first. Then the waiting for his cue. He nods a little to the music of other acts—a slow tango, a one-step, a mazurka. Now the “Merry-Go-Round” waltz while elephant bulls dance around their pedestals.

  This is his cue, this is it! He canters into the center ring, the spotlights following him. And now the band is playing his piece! The lilt and rhythm are for him. With a swingy gait he abandons himself to the four-four beat of “Dance, Ballerina, Dance.” Around and around the ring he goes. Never changing pace, never faltering, never sensing the peanuts and popcorn and people. Or paper bags crackling or children crying or a stray dog high-tailing it over a tent pin. Not even the pink lady pirouetting on his back! She is no more than a butterfly. For him there is only the roundness of the arena and the same number of paces each lap, around and around and forever around until the melody explodes into a finale, then stops altogether. The dappled Gray stops, too. A moist, slender hand is under his muzzle, as he knew it would be. He licks it slowly, savoring the salty sweetness, while a roar goes up from the crowd and a soft voice tells him he has done his work well.

  Then it is over and he is back in the horse tent, having his rosin make-up removed. With a sigh of contentment he reaches down to pick up the wisp of hay he dropped when the bugle sounded.

  In the professional world of the circus he is called “Rosinback” because his back and loin are always rubbed with rosin to keep the pink lady from falling off. His color must be either white or gray so the rosin won’t show; and his back broad, so it will form a wide landing place; and his disposition calm, for a sudden shy could mean death to the lady in pink.

  To the rest of the world he is not a Rosinback at all. He is a Percheron, a big “drafter” who came to America from a tiny district in France.

  A small boy played a big part in bringing the Percheron to America. He was Mark Dunham, and he lived in the little village of Wayne, in Illinois. One day in the year 1848, he and his father set off in their high spring buggy for the Farmer’s Fair at Springfield. Young Mark, a lad with a lick of red hair and a freckle-dusted nose, fully expected to see high-stepping carriage horses and tough little work horses at the Fair; he was not at all prepared to see as well a deep-bodied animal that had come all the way from France.

  He pressed close to the
ring where the horses were being shown, and suddenly his breath caught in his throat. The handlers were running into the ring with stallions, and among the small American-born horses he spied a prodigious creature. Different from all others. It wasn’t just his bigness, or the fact that he wore more ribbons in his tail and tassels in his mane, or that he trotted as airily as if he were dancing around a Maypole. Or even that he was the one horse that moved in step with the band. It was his power. He could crush a man with one hoof, yet he was docile as a pup.

  Mark pushed his straw hat back. In all his six years he had never seen a stallion so big and grand. He wished he could pronounce the name Percheron, but the best he could do was shorten it to Perche.

  For days afterward, and for years, Mark thought about the wonderful horse at the Fair. And when he grew up, his thoughts amounted to something. He set sail for France and sought out the tiny district of La Perche. There he discovered rolling pastureland with whole meadows of alfalfa and clover. The horses that grazed on it were strong in bone and sinew and muscle. They were every whit as magnificent as his Perche at the county fair. Some were gray and some were shining black. And the finest specimens were branded with two enlaced letters, P and S, showing they had been approved by the Percheron Society of France.

  Mark Dunham asked questions as if he were still a freckle-faced boy. Which color was better? The black? The gray?