Geers and Walter Direct

The most talked-of pacer in the light harness world to-day is Walter Direct. The greatest living reinsman is Ed F. Geers, his breeder, joint owner, trainer and driver. The object of this sketch is to tell the story of these two—the one a horse, the other a man. For when it is all sifted down at last, it will be found that there are many parallel lines between a great race horse and a great driver. Each to succeed must possess certain qualities in common which make for success.

ED GEERSThe silent man from Tennessee.

And first, each must be born for greatness. This may seem strange to the uninitiated, but no man knows the truth of it more than he who has spent his life in breeding great horses and in studying great men. It is pedigree that counts in man and horse, and by pedigree I do not mean blood lines only, though they count more in the life of the lower animal, the horse, than in the life of the higher animal, the man. Blood lines alone will not carry a man through the battle of life and bring him out victor at the end. For there are two pedigrees in every man whichcount for greatness or weakness in him. One is the pedigree of his body, the other is the pedigree of his soul. With horse, the pedigree of body counts most. With man, the soul. For it is that which counts for honesty, for singleness of purpose, for truthfulness, for silence, for thought, for right living, for that deathless spirit which never says die. In victory, calm; in defeat, silent, but saying proudly:

“Out of the darkness which surrounds me,Black as the pit from pole to pole,I thank whatever gods there beFor my unconquerable soul.”

“Out of the darkness which surrounds me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods there be

For my unconquerable soul.”

Unfortunately for man—outside of the pygmies which some call kings—he keeps no record of his pedigree. This is wrong, for man should at least take as much interest in his own pedigree as he does in his horses’ or his dogs’. And so, now and then, a master, in his craft, comes out of the great mass of humanity, with no extended pedigree but the product of earnest and honest and strong God-fearing fathers and mothers of many, many centuries. The child may not know them but for one generation, but they are all there—there in his blood and his brain and his brawn.

And so he is born honest and earnest and strong. Such is Ed Geers—a man who has come up from the common people. Common people of a century ago, but O, how uncommon now in these days of trusts and steals and grinding graft! In these days, when a millionaire is a poor man, these days of the Equitable, these days of Rockefeller, these days of the cursed trusts and tariff and the unspeakable graft-days when man is nothing and money all. God of our fathers, give us back again the days of the honest common people!

From such source comes Shakespeare, whose genius was also the product of honesty, of brawn, of rest. Shakespeare, who has written and left nothing else to be said! From such a source came James Knox, and Andrew Jackson, and John Wesley, and Abraham Lincoln—these and every other great man whose silent statues now stand as the mile-posts of human progress, each marking an era in the epoch of the thing God made him for.

And so, as I said, from such a source came Geers, the honest man and the master reinsman of his age. And so, as I said, counting the recorded pedigree, Walter Direct has it over Geers, for man, who foolishly lets his own pedigree slip, has been very careful in preserving that of his horse. Strange, isn’t it? And yet we are all doing it. Ah, well, perhaps it is best for many of us that it is so. For, as we say of the horse, in the fifth generation each one of us would have to count for sixty-two fathers and mothers, landing us back two hundred years ago in Scotland and Ireland, and out of that number, in that age and country, fortunate is he who was not sent up for poaching, for cattle-lifting, for breaking heads and, perhaps—locks!

Walter’s pedigree is blue-blooded. His owners, Chaffin & Gears, saw to that. We can makeour horse’s pedigree better than we can make our own—for that is made for us, and often, in the making, when two warm youngsters fall in love and decide to marry, nothing but the grace of God, or the breaking of a midnight ladder, has saved us.

InThe Horse Reviewof 1900, when Walter Direct was then a suckling at his mother’s heels, I wrote a description of him and predicted from his blood lines that one day he would be the greatest of pacers. It sounds prophetic now, but I rise hastily to disclaim it. Any horseman posted in the pedigree and achievement of his sire and dam, and of all his bluelines, would naturally have said the same thing. His sire, Direct Hal, was the greatest horse of his day. His name and career are household words in horsedom and will not be extended in this article. But later on, in “The History of the Hals,” now running as a serial in this Monthly, a chapter will be devoted to him in its proper place. It is enough here to say that he was unbeaten and that his sire, Direct, before him, was the greatest pacing stallion of his day, and that beyond that lies the great Director, Dictator and Hambletonian 10—an unbroken line of greatness—and in a horse greatness means gameness, soundness, honesty, speed.

Isn’t that enough to give us a tip on the breeding of boys and girls?

Walter’s dam is a homely little mare called Ella Brown, with a record of 2:111/4, made in 1893, to high-wheel sulky. With the sulky of to-day it would have been 2:05. Never have I known a gamer, sweeter little mare than Ella Brown, and well do I remember when she first came out, and though suffering acutely, all through her racing career with nervicular disease of the foot, often so lame that she could scarcely score down for the word, yet, when she was in the fight, and the clatter and hot breath of her competitors sounded the warning in her ears, she would forget her lameness and her soreness and race like the game little thing she was.

And, like all other great mares, the pedigree of Ella Brown was no accident. She was sired by Prince Pulaski, Jr., and he by old Prince Pulaski, the sire of the old queen, Mattie Hunter, 2:123/4. The dam of Ella Brown has only lately been correctly established. She was by Evans’ Joe Bowers, son of Joe Bowers 2:32, son of Traveler. Her second dam was by Tom Hal, sire of Brown Hal, and her third dam was said to be by Brooks, sire of Bonesetter 2:19. Every horseman knows what these mean. Mated with Direct Hal, and hence doubled in strength and greatness, and behold Walter Direct, champion green pacer of the year.

This is the pedigree of Edward Geers—this is the pedigree of Walter. Both honest.

Geers’ honesty is proverbial. His surname is “Honest Ed Geers, the Silent Man of Tennessee.” Did you ever notice how naturally greatness and silence go together?Let that greatest of all great men, Shakespeare, tell it:

Silence oft of pure innocencePersuades when speaking fails.

Silence oft of pure innocence

Persuades when speaking fails.

There are many stories told of the honesty of Ed Geers. It must be remembered that in the life he has led, the terrible, bruising, fighting battles of the turf, when fame and fortune often hang on the wire for which hundreds of others are driving as well as he, that he is often sorely and terribly tempted. Men are human at most, and in a fight for money, for fame, for the joy of victory, all combined in one race, all the great stakes of life, is it a wonder that millionaire horsemen have tried to buy him, that rich breeders have tried to bribe him, greedy owners corner him and tricksters and knaves foul him? Think of twenty-five years of this and then coming out without a stain on his name, a breath of suspicion and the pseudonum of Honest Ed Geers—won, too, in the light of the fiercest conflict.

Walter is game, so is Geers. In the many years in which the latter has been in the sulky he has met with accidents which, if they failed to break his neck, would have broken the heart of an ordinary man.

All horsemen will recall the bad accident he had with Searchlight and the one that sent him to the hospital at Memphis a few years ago, with a broken ankle. But a few weeks ago he was in a bad mix-up at Buffalo, when King Direct’s foot went into the sulky wheel of the contending horse. The Nestor of the turf was unconscious when picked up, but quickly revived and dryly remarked, “Now, don’t make a hurrah of this thing and scare everybody to death for nothing.” That remark is an index of his character. He hates a hurrah. The plumage of the peacock has never become the pit game trimmed for the fight. He is loyal to his friends, modest, quiet, honest, and with reverence for all that is sacred and good. He is one of the large men of his calling.

The training of Walter Direct has been in keeping with Mr. Geers’ theory that colts should be trained early but not hard. From the May night when he was foaled in a terrific thunderstorm, so fierce that Old Wash, who acted as his midwife, was scarcely able to keep him from drowning, until to-day, he has had the best of attention. His dam was fed grain during the nursing period, and Walter soon learned to eat it with her. He was broken to halter as a weanling, and the next spring, Negley, the colored caretaker, broke him to harness, with occasional jogs. The fall after he was a two-year-old he was sent to Memphis to Geers and given his first real lessons, and so trained each winter, with joggings in the summer by Negley at Columbia. Mr. Geers’ rule is to keep them feeling good with a brush now and then for speed. He has a horror of overworking colts. Indeed, his stable is never asked to go the fast heats that many other owners delight in before being shipped to the races. He saves their speed and vital force for the time when itis needed most. In the spring when Walter was a three-year-old he was asked to go a fast mile in 2:14, and was sent to Columbia to be jogged and turned out. The next spring he paced his mile in 2:083/4, when he was sent back home again. On September 15, 1904 he was sent again to Mr. Geers and to fame.

LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER.

(Revised by Trotwood and brought up to date.)

A chieftain to the Highland boundWould steal Lord Ullin’s daughter;He bought a new machine in town—A thing he hadn’t auto.He sought the castle by the seaAnd stopped behind the kitchen;“This beats a pony bad,” said he,“Because it don’t need hitchin’.”He got the girl and started outBy pullin’ of a lever,And then that auto turned about—It was a gay deceiver.It snorted, backed, went round and round,Broke belly-band and breechin’,Reared up and kicked—then, with a bound,It started through the kitchen.In there was Ullin fast asleep,His stomach full of mutton;That auto knocked him in a heapIt broke his only button.“O, haste, thee—haste!” the Lady cries,“Tho’ steams around me gather,I’ll meet the ragings of the skiesBut not a naked Father.”“Aha—farewell—and now we’ll go,”Said Laddy, smiling grimly;He tried to head her for the door—She started for the chimney.“Come back—come back!” old Ullin cries,“Not up there—that’s my larder;You’ll ruin my meat and pies—Come back an’ take my darter.”By this the thing grew loud of pace,Its waterworks were shrieking;It started for the old staircase,While Ullin was a-speaking.It met Mrs. Ullin coming down—She’d tucked the kids to cover;She wore her night-cap and her gown—She never wore another!It buzzed amid the trundle beds,Ran over lairds and lasses,Went through the window, down the sheds,And waked up all the asses.It chased the hound-pups round the yard,Ran over kairn and cattle;The clans turned out with tunics barr’d,And pibrocks, armed for battle.The girl had fainted, sore dismayed,Twice had it turned her over:One lovely arm was stretched for aid,And one was round her lover.Up spake a hardy Highland wight—(A rope was round him, ready):“Just watch me rope her hind leg tightAnd stop her, staunch and steady!”He threw and caught her fast and fair,It set their blood to fighting—They saw him sailing through the air,A tail he was—and kiting!Now Ullin had a mother-in-law,A saint she was from Zion;Her lungs were rubber, cheeks were bra’,Her body—well, SCRAP iron!She waked and heard the dreadful din,Ran down, the thing to worst it;It struck her, knocked its inwards in,It wheezed and groaned—and burst it!They slew poor Laddy where he satWith blunderbuss and bullit;“’Tis not,” said Ullin, “’cause the bratWas monkeyin’ with my pullit,“But comin’ here in this vile carTo run off with my darter,An’ not like neighbor Lochinvar,On hoss-flesh, as he orter.”—JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE.

A chieftain to the Highland boundWould steal Lord Ullin’s daughter;He bought a new machine in town—A thing he hadn’t auto.

A chieftain to the Highland bound

Would steal Lord Ullin’s daughter;

He bought a new machine in town—

A thing he hadn’t auto.

He sought the castle by the seaAnd stopped behind the kitchen;“This beats a pony bad,” said he,“Because it don’t need hitchin’.”

He sought the castle by the sea

And stopped behind the kitchen;

“This beats a pony bad,” said he,

“Because it don’t need hitchin’.”

He got the girl and started outBy pullin’ of a lever,And then that auto turned about—It was a gay deceiver.

He got the girl and started out

By pullin’ of a lever,

And then that auto turned about—

It was a gay deceiver.

It snorted, backed, went round and round,Broke belly-band and breechin’,Reared up and kicked—then, with a bound,It started through the kitchen.

It snorted, backed, went round and round,

Broke belly-band and breechin’,

Reared up and kicked—then, with a bound,

It started through the kitchen.

In there was Ullin fast asleep,His stomach full of mutton;That auto knocked him in a heapIt broke his only button.

In there was Ullin fast asleep,

His stomach full of mutton;

That auto knocked him in a heap

It broke his only button.

“O, haste, thee—haste!” the Lady cries,“Tho’ steams around me gather,I’ll meet the ragings of the skiesBut not a naked Father.”

“O, haste, thee—haste!” the Lady cries,

“Tho’ steams around me gather,

I’ll meet the ragings of the skies

But not a naked Father.”

“Aha—farewell—and now we’ll go,”Said Laddy, smiling grimly;He tried to head her for the door—She started for the chimney.

“Aha—farewell—and now we’ll go,”

Said Laddy, smiling grimly;

He tried to head her for the door—

She started for the chimney.

“Come back—come back!” old Ullin cries,“Not up there—that’s my larder;You’ll ruin my meat and pies—Come back an’ take my darter.”

“Come back—come back!” old Ullin cries,

“Not up there—that’s my larder;

You’ll ruin my meat and pies—

Come back an’ take my darter.”

By this the thing grew loud of pace,Its waterworks were shrieking;It started for the old staircase,While Ullin was a-speaking.

By this the thing grew loud of pace,

Its waterworks were shrieking;

It started for the old staircase,

While Ullin was a-speaking.

It met Mrs. Ullin coming down—She’d tucked the kids to cover;She wore her night-cap and her gown—She never wore another!

It met Mrs. Ullin coming down—

She’d tucked the kids to cover;

She wore her night-cap and her gown—

She never wore another!

It buzzed amid the trundle beds,Ran over lairds and lasses,Went through the window, down the sheds,And waked up all the asses.

It buzzed amid the trundle beds,

Ran over lairds and lasses,

Went through the window, down the sheds,

And waked up all the asses.

It chased the hound-pups round the yard,Ran over kairn and cattle;The clans turned out with tunics barr’d,And pibrocks, armed for battle.

It chased the hound-pups round the yard,

Ran over kairn and cattle;

The clans turned out with tunics barr’d,

And pibrocks, armed for battle.

The girl had fainted, sore dismayed,Twice had it turned her over:One lovely arm was stretched for aid,And one was round her lover.

The girl had fainted, sore dismayed,

Twice had it turned her over:

One lovely arm was stretched for aid,

And one was round her lover.

Up spake a hardy Highland wight—(A rope was round him, ready):“Just watch me rope her hind leg tightAnd stop her, staunch and steady!”

Up spake a hardy Highland wight—

(A rope was round him, ready):

“Just watch me rope her hind leg tight

And stop her, staunch and steady!”

He threw and caught her fast and fair,It set their blood to fighting—They saw him sailing through the air,A tail he was—and kiting!

He threw and caught her fast and fair,

It set their blood to fighting—

They saw him sailing through the air,

A tail he was—and kiting!

Now Ullin had a mother-in-law,A saint she was from Zion;Her lungs were rubber, cheeks were bra’,Her body—well, SCRAP iron!

Now Ullin had a mother-in-law,

A saint she was from Zion;

Her lungs were rubber, cheeks were bra’,

Her body—well, SCRAP iron!

She waked and heard the dreadful din,Ran down, the thing to worst it;It struck her, knocked its inwards in,It wheezed and groaned—and burst it!

She waked and heard the dreadful din,

Ran down, the thing to worst it;

It struck her, knocked its inwards in,

It wheezed and groaned—and burst it!

They slew poor Laddy where he satWith blunderbuss and bullit;“’Tis not,” said Ullin, “’cause the bratWas monkeyin’ with my pullit,

They slew poor Laddy where he sat

With blunderbuss and bullit;

“’Tis not,” said Ullin, “’cause the brat

Was monkeyin’ with my pullit,

“But comin’ here in this vile carTo run off with my darter,An’ not like neighbor Lochinvar,On hoss-flesh, as he orter.”—JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE.

“But comin’ here in this vile car

To run off with my darter,

An’ not like neighbor Lochinvar,

On hoss-flesh, as he orter.”

—JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE.

Humor is a great thing, but it has never yet won a battle, built a city or bred a horse.

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