MORO HILL MANITO
(Moro Hills Micah x Moro Hill’s Michele)
1978-1994
My plan was to grow old with my beloved Manito, but we know about plans, dreams, horses and men and how tragedy has haunted them throughout history. I now think of the heartache A. Fullerton Phillips suffered when he lost much of his precious herd. It happened in a flash of lightning in August of 1924. Only Nekomia, the yearling John A. Darling and a few others survived. They were a large part of what we now call “Lippitts”, and from these and theirs came “Moro Hill Manito”, the horse of my dreams. The horse that was described by more than one little girl as “The fairy tale horse”, a “Dark unicorn without his horn”, “The horse with that long curly mane and tail”, and by others as that sweet little stallion that even a child could lead. It was all true, and for a time we knew beauty and grace in the form of an almost mystical creature whose very name means “A supernatural force that pervades the natural world”. Until I met Manito, a stallion of any breed meant danger, distrust and domination. He changed all that for me and for all who would come to know him. Of course there is the long list of blue ribbons for Manito, his boys and girls, but somehow, now, none of that matters.
This was a loss for me, mine; and the entire morgan world. We are perilously close to the end of an era in which the Treftcs of Moro Hill somehow developed those chiseled and dished faces, large kind eyes, perfect round bodies, laid back shoulders, well crested necks, tailsets like the perfect stem of an apple d those kind, kind courageous hearts that only stop after a fight that would touch the most callous soul.
It had rained recently. He was herding his mares and foals as he always did when a quick turn in a grove of trees sent him sliding nose first into a large oak. Though conscious, he never could completely rise on all four feet. Our vigil lasted 32 hours. Everything possible was done to alleviate the pain and to raise him to that noble stance once again, but it was not to be. At 3:15 A.M. May 2, 1994, as the lightning cracked the sky and the thunder rolled across the Texas prairies, he left us. Perhaps he left for a green hillside in that land some of us still dream of. Maybe he’s with his forefathers, that mischievous Allen’s Major, Sealect, Hales Green Mountain 42, old Gifford, Woodbury and even old Justin. Wherever he is, I long to go there. Until then, we’re stuck here with our precious memories, hopes and shattered dreams, swept into a neat little stack as we try to piece it all again.
(LCN Volume XXI, Vol. 2 Versatility/Western Region/Canada July-Sept 1994, p. 23.)
