From the Ancient Gossip column presented by Diane Orser for the “Lippitt Club News,” Vol. XII, No. 6, Nov/Dec 1985, pp 10-11:
“Another True Story About the Intelligence and Courage of the Morgans”
Written by Joseph F. Bean, in an old circular of the Morgan Horse Co., Carpentersville, Illinois
In 1855 my father emigrated from New Hampshire to Minnesota, taking with him a pair of young mares, one, a bay weighing 1050 pounds, was always called a Morgan, though we never knew positively the blood of her sire; the other, a chestnut sorrel weighing 1083 pounds, was sired by a well-known and popular Morgan horse, called, in our vicinity of New Hampshire, the “Steve French horse.” Before starting, father went over to Vermont and bought the best Morgan yearling stallion colt he could obtain, taking him along also. (I think he was a grandson of Green Mountain Morgan.) Two years later, both mares dropped bay mare colts by this young horse. They grew to about the same size as their mothers. When they were five years old, Father sold them to a young man for $550. Within the next year, a gentleman, having some business to transact out on the sparsely settled frontier, hired this young man with his team to take him to the distant settlement.
They started early in the morning one January day with a light sleigh. They had a good road for 15 miles; then they came to a road in an unsettled district in which, though it was plain to follow, the snow lay unbroken eight inches deep for twenty-six miles, then they were detained by their business over three hours in this settlement driving fourteen miles to finish it; then they drove twenty-five miles to a county seat to transact some business there, then went a different road home.
The whole road, except the first fifteen and the last ten miles, was strange to both men and the team. They had no thought, at first, of driving home that night, but the team went so fast and so proudly and cheerfully that they let them go on and reached home at midnight, having driven 206 miles. The gentleman for whom the trip was made (a man with large experience with driving horses) said: “I have driven many a good horse on the racetrack and on the road, in many states between the Atlantic Ocean and west of the Mississippi River, but I was never before in my life slung over the road in such exhilarating style. They did not falter a step and did not show any sign of fatigue, though they must have been tired; they rushed like a tempest all day and trotted up to their stable at midnight in the same energetic style they left it the morning before.”
Part 2:
I should also say they were not used exclusively for light driving but also for mixed farmwork.
About the next fall, in exchanging work with his neighbors, their owner was working them on a thrashing machine (either ten or twenty horsepower). One of the owners of the machine, Mr. N., had a fine large gray team called half-Norman, weighing about 1400 or 1500 pounds each, of which he was very proud and about which he was fond of boasting, frequently saying, “There is the best team in our country,” and it was generally conceded to be true by his neighbors. One day a “setting” was finished and another of four stacks stood on a knoll about five or six feet high, some six or eight rods away. It was a “down power” and the distance was so short it was thought best to “snake” the power without loading it or removing the sweeps. Mr. N. had his large team hitched to the separator.
“Shall I snake up the power,” asked S., the owner of the Morgan mares.
“No,” said N., “it’s no use to hitch those little rats to it; they can’t pull it out. As soon as I set the separator, I’ll snake it up with my team.”
S. busied himself about something else until the crack team of the country was hitched to the power; they tried but did not start it. “N.,” said S., “when you’re through fooling with that power, I’ll put on my little mares and pull it up for you.”
N. did not reply, but urged his team again, but the power would not start.
“When you are done fooling with that power, I’ll pull it up for you with my little mares,” said S.
N. was angry. “If you want to act like a fool, hitch your little mares to it,” said he.
S. started instantly, brought up his little Morgan mares and hitched them to the power. They stooped and lifted once, and only once; they tore it out when they stopped; they left it where it was wanted. They were beautiful, gentle, kind, and intelligent; they were fleet and powerful. On the road or on a load, their behavior was always pleasing. They were representatives of the Morgan blood, which seem to obey your will like your right hand without word or sign.
(Woodcut of Sherman Morgan, one of Justin Morgan’s sons, by the Fisk mare.)
