In spring, when the world was full of flowers, and orchids and blue flags hung their banners out to tempt the Evans children into the woods, Morgan would go with them to gather these or the more useful medicinal herbs for times of sickness--pleurisy-root, marshmallow or ginseng. In summer he went with them to pick berries of all sorts or wild grapes, and when the autumn came, with its glory of beech and maple, turning to copper and scarlet, he would bring home their bags of nuts across his round back. In winter his coat grew long and thick; and Evans himself rode him to distant traps set in the forest for bear, musk-rat and foxes, which supplied food or clothing for the family. The horse grew accustomed after a while to the monotony of his life and tried to make the best of it. One cold, clear day Evans cleaned him so very carefully Morgan felt sure something was about to happen, but did not try to guess what; he had learned the futility of that long ago, for things never came about as he guessed or planned they should. In the course of time, however, he found himself cantering along the stage-road to Boston. It was a trip he had long wanted to take, so many horses had told him what a beautiful and gay city it was. The day being severely cold, he was glad enough of the long legs and homespun woolen breeches of his rider which covered so much of his sides. As for Evans, he had his muskrat cap pulled well over his ears and his home-made boots of calf-skin (smelling horribly of grease), with the heavy breeches tucked well inside, were warm and comfortable to his feet. But they must have cut a sorry figure when they reached Boston and went along Summer Street; that lovely, fashionable thoroughfare, with its stately trees, beautiful flower gardens and splendid mansions. It was dusk when they stopped in Corn Court, at the Braser Inn--the famous hostelry opened by Samuel Cole, in 1634, where Miantonomah’s painted Indians--envoys to Sir Harry Vane--had been entertained; where the French Premier, Talleyrand, had so lately stayed; where so many other events of history had taken place. As Evans was hitching his horse to a post near the side door of the tavern, Morgan heard a familiar, bantering voice; the odor of musk came to his nostrils faintly, and glancing about, he saw--as he knew he should--the Coxcomb. No fop of the King’s court could have looked more elegant; his Continental coat, cocked hat and high shining boots were of the latest cut--not less offensive to the simple taste of the horse was his insolent swagger. Master Knickerbocker, of course, did not notice Morgan, but cried to Evans persuadingly: “Tarry the night, my Green Mountain Giant, we can show you rare sport at cards if you’ve money in your purse.” Evans towered above the popinjay as his Green Mountains would have towered over Beacon Hill. He gazed down at him with contempt, vaguely, yet not definitely, recognizing his one-time antagonist in a race, as Morgan had.