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Of all Oregon writers, Homer Davenport best captured the feel of small towns in the state in the nineteenth century. Davenport became a nationally famous Reform cartoonist ( click here) as well as introducing the famous Davenport Arabians (click here), which sprang from a pair given him by an Arab friend in the 19th century. One of those stallions, Jadaan, accompanied Rudolf Valentino (here) into history.

Old John

by Homer Davenport

Including the author's Illustrations

In a few days father returned again from Silverton and said he had promised that he would take the Grange store in the spring. it seemed as though winter would never pass; it actually lasted years. We talked of nothing else during the evenings, and I thought of nothing else, dreamed of nothing else during the nights. Finally as spring opened we thought of Old John, a big. fat round bay horse with knowing brown eyes. in fact, he was one of the family; all of us except my Own mother and. father had learned to ride and drive with Old John, as had all the neighbors’ children. It wouldn’t do to take Jim to Silverton, as he was afraid of covered bridges and bass drums, and they had one of each in that place.

Father didn’t want to leave the farm he had chosen of all the wilds of Oregon but my stepmother knew it was the only thing to do especially for my art education, , which had already begun. I heard Father and Mother in arguments, and heard Father say that the city was no place to teach art; that art was most in evidence in the country, especially such a country, but women always win, so later in the spring my father sold the most beautiful farm I ever saw that we could move to Silverton, a town of three hundred inhabitants; that I might live in the Latin Quarter of that village, and inhale any artistic atmosphere that was going to waste.

Old John was left at Grandma Geer’s with their Old Chancy, a horse nearly as old but not half as smart. When the folks moved to Silverton they left me in the hills, after all, till my school was over, and I stayed with Grand­mother and Old John, who didn’t understand it.

I rode him to Silverton a Sunday or two, but we both felt strange. In the pasture we were at home, but the noise of Silverton and strange horses and boys and girls didn’t make us feel just right. I knew Alvin McClaine, and one or two others, and everybody knew Old John, and most of them were glad we were coming. Alvin told me what we would do when I came to town, but Old John had to be left.

He had grown up in our family, Father got him when he was an orphan colt, and my own mother made a pet out of him. He was smart. He used to get into the milk-house and drink up all the milk. When he had done that, you could always find him in canyon pasture. It was the farthest away from the house. He could open any gate that farmers made, and they made the best; he could even open the doors to the house..

 He had gotten home so late that the only evidence they had were the lilies and scum from some pond, but the next morning they found he had been in mud up to his barrel; then they solved the problem. They had sent him away from Salem without’ water; the horse, knowing of Lake Labish on the lower road, eight miles out of his way, went there; its banks are steep and the bottom is very muddy, so the weight of the btiggy on the slippery banks pushed him in when he went to drink. So he swam in a half circle to get back out the floor of the buggy picking up the pond lilies on the swim. He was a smart old fel­low, in fact, he and Father were thee thinkers of the place; it was on him I learned a lot, and between him and the ground I learned a lot more.

I remember one awfully dark night I grew more than at­tached to him; it was my duty to get up the sheep, and that particular day I bad been playing so hard I forgot them. I was asleep, when they woke me to find out if 1 was sleep­ing, and then they asked if I had washed my feet; I was certain I had, but on bringing a candle it proved that I was mistaken as to the date. While I was sitting with just the ends of my toes in a basin of cold well water, trying to get up courage enough to shove in the whole foot, Father happened to think of the sheep and he called out, “Are the sheep up?”

I had forgotten them. It was dark and I herd an owl screech up in the orchard. Shedding tears didn’t save me, I was ordered

To the barn to get Old John. I had both hands clenched tight in his mane. I knew he was tracking the sheep. Presently from out the dark ahead I could hear the bell; then I knew that they would start straight for the barn, which they did. Once back in the stall I hugged Old John, the tears on my cheeks had dried with fright, and after a footbath I was in bed, safe from an awful, dark night, a coyote, and some barn and timber owls.

But Old John and I had some pleasant times; our associations were not all ghastly.

In the summer we used to buck straw from the threshing machine; when there were plcnics I used to braid his mane and tail the day before. Then when I rode to the picnic with his kinky mane, both of us used to enjoy it, and he especially seemed to know how pretty he looked But some way he was always so glad to get home; he didn’t seem like another horse, he just seemed like one of the family, and the only time it took a man to handle him was when we went to the State Fair at Salem.

 When we got within half a mile of the fairgrounds where he could bear bass drum in the distance, he turned into a wild horse; his ears were ever in motion then and his hazel eyes had the sparkle of an Arab’s. He would try to cramp the buggy and get home, and at the State Fair it was always best to lead him, as he pranced all the time. But he was not mean; he didn’t like state fairs, that was all. He and I stayed at Grandma’s until just before I left to go to Silverton. Old John had been turned out on what we called “The Snake Hill Pasture,” and there he and Old Chancy were spending their last days. He was past twenty, as sound as a dollar, his only fault being that be was a little too fat and lazy.

Grandfather bad been over to the pasture to put out some squirrel poison; it was on Sunday, the last Sunday. I was to go to Silverton that afternoon. At the dinner table Grandfather spoke of the queer actions of Old John; said that be acted strange, that be first noticed him whinnying long and loud; then he would stop and listen, first with one ear forward, then with the other. His eye had a sparkle that it never had, except at a state fair, and he seemed nervous. “He came to me and nosed at all my pockets. to see if I had salt for him; then he would try to play; colthood seemed to return to him but in the midst of his play be would stop and call; he would even try to look the sun and when I came to the bars to come away”,  said Grandfather, “he came along and didn’t want to be left.” From the crest of the hill, I could see him driving the stock gently from one shade to the other.” Grand­mother, who had been quiet all this time, said, “I can tell you what’s the matter with Old John; he wants to see Homer before he leaves this afternoon for Silverton. I shouldn’t wonder but that’s it, so you must go over before you start and say good-bye to your old pardner,” said Grandma, as she passed the pumpkin pie. “I expect when I see you get into the buggy, I’ll feel as bad as old John, and may act just as strange,” 

I went over alone after dinner to say goodbye to my old friend and tried to pull some volunteer oats and took them to give him, also some burnt cookies Grandmother gave me, as be always liked something sweet.It was as perfect a day as you ever saw, the sky was very high and blue and there was just enough breeze blowing to move the leaves on the trees. As  I came to the pasture I was slightly disappointed that Old John wasn’t at the bars to meet me. I could see, however, all the stock up under a large spreading oak that stood on top of the small rise we called “Snake Hill.” A lark was singing on top of a tree— singing as if the yellow spot on his throat would burst. I didn’t see Old John, but I saw Old Charley, the yellow horse, standing with his head down Cattle stood close and more than a hundred sheep stood silently by. Some small lambs were playing on a log near, just as small children might play at a funeral. As I came closer, I saw in the shade of a mighty oak, Old John lying dead. It seemed to be, and undoubtedly was, understood by everybody but the young lambs that there was a funeral in progress. The yellow horse stood quietly over him with his nose resting on the dead horse’s shoulder.

His big brown eyes were open but were not focused on any one particular thing. They were blank and, expressionless but his body was still warm. I sat against the big round back that had carried me after the sheep so many dark nights and I thought of the picnics we had gone to, and I fondled the mane I used to braid for the gala occasions. I could see the faint scars of the collar and tugs that had been left when Years ago, he had helped father clear up the landscape of a pioneer farm. I saw him as my own mother’s pet that grew to be the mischievous rogue that got into the pantry and ate all the pies and drank the milk, and then hid in the back pasture. I saw him in the days my sister Orla rode him to the Fourth of July celebration, where the bass drum and the plug uglies made him prance for miles, and I thought of him as the friend, even the philosopher, the teacher of children, and everything that a perfect horse could be. And it seemed a fitting occasion, if he had to die, to die on such a perfect day, the very kind of a day he used to enjoy most.

- from The Country Boy by Homer Davenport; G.W. Dillingham, New York 1910

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gently from one shade to the other.” Grand­mother, who had been quiet all this time, said, “I can tell you what’s the mat­tér with Old John; he wants to see Homershouldn’t wonder but that’s it, so you must go over before you start and say good-bye to your old pardner,” said Grandma, as she passed the pumpkin pie. “I expect when I see you get into the bug