My stories and reminiscences of once famous horses seem to have attracted much attention and awakened some interest, and one of my correspondents alludes in his letter to me about the splendid mare Nettie Norton, who, some nine years ago, won so beautifully in a big race in which three of the best riders in the world were mounted on three of the best horses in the world. Hayward was the mount of Shylock, Bobby Swim of Pennington and Evans of Nettie Norton. The bettin’ in this race was wholly on Pennington and Shylock. Nettie Norton had hardly a backer. She was as completely ignored as if she hadn’t existed.
Well, the race began, and at first it looked as if those who had ignored Nettie Norton had done just right. She ignored herself and didn’t make any show at all. But in the second third of the race she did so much better than in the first that sportin’ men awoke to the fact of her existence, and even to the fact that there was a possibility of her winnin’.
In the third and last part of the race this possibility was made a certainty. Shylock and Pennington seemed tired out, while Nettie Norton was just beginnin’ to show the stuff that was in her and was bound to come out. In vain Hayward and Wwim used catgut and steel. In vain the men who had put their pile on the two horses yelled and howled. Bets were already made of $100 to $75 that the hitherto unheeded Nettie Norton would beat ‘em both, and so she did.
The whole thing was so unexpected that it had all the force of a dramatic surprise, and even the men who lost their money cheered the plucky mare and her great rider. From that time on Nettie Norton was never ignored. Some think that she had the finest future before her of any racin’ mare, as she was constantly gettin’ better and better. But just what she could have done no one can exactly tell, for to the surprise of all, the sincere grief of a few, her trainer, William Strong, among the number, the mare died suddenly one afternoon at Coffee’s farm, near Suffern’s, of heart disease. She was quietly grazin’ in the paddock, when all at once she fell on her fore knees, and before anyone could reach her was dead. She died without pain or struggle and in less than one minute.
The very owner of Nettie Norton never expected her to do as well as she did. In fact, men who own horses often make mistakes about ‘em, and as often underestimate as exaggerate their good qualities. August Belmont, for instance, is one of the best turfites in the country–but he has made several mistakes about his horses. He never saw much in Fiddlestick at first, although the horse combined some of the best blood of English and American stud books. But Belmont’s trainer, Jacob Pincus, had every faith in Fiddlestick, and although Belmont was willin’ to get rid of him, wouldn’t let him part with him. Finally he got his chance and for a while Fiddlestick was regarded as in his line the comin’ horse of America. He won every race, and Belmont, goin’ to the other extreme, thought he had a perfect treasure. But just as Belmont made up his mind to this pleasin’ conviction, lo, Fiddlestick’s luck turned, and he lost all his races, one after the other.
Another of Belmont’s mistakes was with Rhadamanthus. Rhadamanthus was black as the ace of spades, not a white spot on him, and was regarded as a very beautiful animal. But somehow Belmont never liked him, and finally sold him to Mr. George Longstaff. He liked him as much as Belmont had disliked him, and took any quantity of trouble with him, which was well repaid. Scratch and Freebooter were two more of Belmont’s mistakes. Belmont didn’t like either of these horses, though he owned ‘em both, and got rid of ‘em at very low figures to men who afterwards, with these very “condemned” horses, beat some of the favorites of Belmont’s own stable. But on the whole Belmont has shown great judgment and has been unusually successful on the turf, probably on the principlel that he didn’t need success and could have got along without it.
There is a good deal of sheer, high-soundin’ nonsense talked and written about trainin’ of horses and gettin’ ‘em into “condition” for a race. There was Blackwood, for example, “the iron horse of Tennessee,” as he was called, he defied all trainin’, and won his races in or out of condition, just as might happen.
His owner didn’t believe in any theory, and worked Blackwood very hard from the time he was two years old. He sent him travelin’ all round the country just like actors at “one night stands.” In one season he traveled over 6,000 miles by rail, raced twenty-seven times, and yet won twenty races out of twenty-seven.
When two years old he took twenty-two quarts of oats a day on the average. When three years old he was fed on sixteen quarts of oats and three quarts of wheat bran.
And all the time he was allowed to enjoy himself just as he pleased, and do as he pleased, only he must win his races, which he did.
But then he came of mighty good stock, on his mother’s side especially. His dam was the showiest and speediest mare in Kentucky, known far and wide over the blue grass country as La Belle Sheridan.
This La Belle Sheridan had a daughter, Blackwood’s half sister, who was as handsome and speedy as her mother. Their owner used to drive mother and daughter in double harness, and those two made the handsomest and speediest team of mares ever driven by mortal man. Old turfmen who have seen the mother and daughter together are rapturous over the memory of the sight to-day.
La Belle Sheridan and her daughter (called La Belle) were very much attached to each other and kept together as much as possible. They really seemed to know and prize their relationship as tenderly and truly as any two humans.
Each mare was raised a good deal, and although each one separately generally beat any other horses that were trotted against ‘em, yet whenever they were raced against each other–an experiment which was tried three times–the race resulted in a dead heat or a draw.
Neither mare could or would beat the other, at least neither of ‘em ever did. This is vouched for by men in whose veracity I have every reason to place reliance.
If there is any instance of family affection between mother and daughter on two legs which beats this, I have never happened to hear of it.
Among the fast mares of the American turf I should here take occasion to refer to Lula. She was a very nervous animal, hard to train, very fidgety, crotchety as any old maid, but when she was in a race she was the very devil, and would rather die than not win a point, in which a good many nervous women of her temperament resemble her.
It was her “nerve” altogether that enabled Lula to beat Goldsmith Maid in her wonderful race at Rochester nine years ago. Everybody almost bet on Goldsmith Maid that time. Lula was called “flighty” and “nervous.” So she was. But she beat Goldsmith Maid nevertheless by sheer didn’t of “do or die.”
And there is no doubt that Lula would have died then and there on the track of over-exertion, if Goldsmith Maid had not herself given in. Some mares, like some women, won’t be beat.
