Horse Sense by Julia Sneden

Horse Sense

Our language is full of odd little idioms and aphorisms whose meanings are immediately clear to all, but whose origins are foreign to us because they come from another time.

The other day, a reader wrote and thanked me for the “horse sense” she’d found in something I had written. It seems that her mother, like mine, had used the term interchangeably with the phrase “common sense” to connote practical intelligence.

I’ve no doubt that the term came from a time when horses played a much larger role in the daily lives of humans, not as animals raised merely for sport or companionship, but as a means of transportation and partnership in the hard work of life on the farm.

The interpretation of “horse sense,” however, seems to be changing a bit. A while back, I was talking to a friend whose granddaughter had just won her first ribbon, competing in a horse show. “She has good horse sense, that child,” said the proud grandma. It took me a minute to realize that she was talking about how one relates to a horse. That was definitely not the definition I’ve always understood. “Horse sense,” to me, doesn’t refer to a human’s understanding of how to manage a horse. The term which to us means common sense derives from a horse’s understanding of the simplest, most practical way to proceed when faced with a challenge.

There’s a family story about my great Uncle Ned who, when he was a little boy (in the 1870’s), tried to teach manners to a horse named Nelly. She always took first turn at the feeding trough, which offended young Ned’s sense of priorities. He decided that Gypsy, Nelly’s aunt, deserved to go first because she was older. Ned himself was 7th in a family with 8 children, and he figured he knew what was proper. When he tried to hold Nelly back, however, she just leaned down, took the collar of Ned’s jacket in her teeth, and lifted him out of her way. Problem solved, at least as far as Nelly was concerned.

I’ve learned something about that kind of horse sense via the tales told to me by my grandmother. She was born in 1869, the daughter of an Episcopal priest. In the mid 1850’s, her father had gone west to build and serve many parishes, travelling from little congregation to little congregation every Sunday, two or three at a time. In the vast territory that became Minnesota and the Dakotas, he hitched his buggy behind two “Kentucky Claybanks,” the aforementioned Nelly and Gypsy, who were known throughout the district simply as “the missionary ponies.” The stories of their faithful service gave me my first glimpse into real horse sense.

Roads, in those early days, were little more than tracks across the prairie, through miles of virtually featureless country. In clear weather, finding one’s way wasn’t a problem, but weather in those parts can be chancy; temperatures drop abruptly, and fierce winds tear across the prairie, bringing snow and sleet. Many times, when an unforeseen blizzard came howling down from the north, the Rev. Mr. Burleson had to delay his trip home and stay a night or two with a hospitable parishioner.

One time, during a long circuit, he was caught unawares by a sudden blizzard that swept down from Canada in such a fury that the road quickly disappeared under the snow. In short order, the priest could see no further than his horses’ ears, and a swift darkness soon took even that sight away. They were still many miles from home, and he knew that he was becoming hopelessly lost.

“Take us home, my dears,” he said to the horses as he tied off the reins, wrapped himself deep into his buffalo robe, and curled up on the seat of the buggy.

By the time the horses stumbled into the barnyard, his eyelids were frozen shut by the vapor from his exhaled breath, and his beard had frozen to his shirt. You may be sure that Nelly and Gypsy received a good rubdown and an extra ration of oats, that night.

On another occasion, Mr. Burleson decided to take just his small buggy, because he would be holding service in towns closer to home. He hitched up only Nelly, leaving Gypsy neighing her protest over being left behind in the pasture.

The last town on the circuit lay on the bank of a small river. He started for it late in the day, and by then it had begun to snow. The winds soon strengthened into a blizzard, and it was totally dark by the time he reached the river. He could hear high water rushing under the bridge ahead. The horses had crossed that bridge many times on their travels, but that night, Nelly balked. Her master urged her on, and she jostled, stepped forward, and stopped. Again, he shook the reins and touched her flanks lightly with his whip. She neighed, sidestepped, and then backed up a bit. Once again, he insisted. Slowly, Nelly moved forward, and inch by inch in the blackness, she pulled the buggy onto the bridge.

Once across, Mr. Burleson found the house of a friend and knocked on the door. He was greeted with astonishment.

“How did you get across the river?” asked his friend.

“By the bridge, of course,” said the weary priest.

“Impossible!” his friend replied. “The bridge washed out almost as soon as the storm began.”

Mr. Burleson was so exhausted and cold that he didn’t argue, but just shrugged, saying “Let’s leave this until daylight.” And next morning, when an eager crowd trooped down to the bridge, they found that although the planking had indeed been torn away, the three stringers underneath had held firm. The middle one was an 18-inch beam, and the outer two were placed at exactly the right width for the wheels of his buggy, with maybe an inch or two to spare. The water, which had flooded over the bridge, had receded just enough so that Nelly was able to pick her way along that center beam, pulling her master, buggy and all, across the torrent just beneath them.

I figure that I and all of my many Burleson relatives have good reason to appreciate the term “horse sense,” and to acknowledge our debt to those little “missionary ponies.” Without them, none of us would be here.

Editor's Note: We came across the following website when editing Julia's article: Thoroughbred Heritage, Turf Hallmarks, Grave Matters: North American Farm Index. "If you know of a site of the remains of a famous horse, please email us with the information and it will be added to this list."

Horse Sense

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