The following is a series of stories that was printed in the Watertown Daily Times by E.A. Champan M.D. former doctor and resident of the town of Belleville.
It gives a lot of insight into the man and his times. Permission was given by a family member to print it here on these pages.

Jenny
The True Story of Horse Owned by Dr. E. A. Chapman, Now of Watertown
April 28, 1905

Part I:

She became mine in February, 18—. The short acquaintance I had had with her did not lead me to love her any too well, and I hesitated for some days about binding myself to one with whom I must, from necessity, hold so close and intimate a companionship. Certain circumstances, however, not necessary to mention here, finally induced me to take her. She was but four years old, dark bay in color, weight about nine hundred pounds, heavy mane and tail, small ears, broad between the eyes, large open nostrils, smooth limbed, good feet, closely built—in short, a hardy, wiry, sound little mare, whose name was Jenny. There were some things about her action that did not suit me. There was a little too much snap to her not
over-large eyes; she was quite restless when standing; she didn't seem well broken; and the first time I drove her, when holding her in going up a sharp hill, she moved off sideways toward the ditch, and Mr. Hicks, from whom I purchased her, cried out:

"Let her go, doctor; let her go!"

But, notwithstanding all this, I bought her. I kept at that time but one horse, and, like most country doctors, cared for that myself. Jennvy and I soon became well acquainted with each other; she knew me and I knew her. She was as varied in her moods as well can be imagined.

There were months at a time when she was all that could be desired in a horse—gentle, willing, faithful, obedient. Then there would come days when she was as wilfull and headstrong as she had been gentle and obedient.

Bad roads had much to do with making her bad; and when we reflect on the wretched condition of our common highways, it ia a wonder more horses are not made unsound, ill-tempered and balky, or that they die young because of hard work and ill-treatment.

Jenny would go when she wanted to go, but it must be at her own pace. If I tried to restrain her she would refuse to go at all; she would stop, drive both forward feet into the ground, or stamp them spitefully, with her ears lying back on her neck and her eyes flashing fire—a perfect picture of a demoniac. She was no kicker, and would never run unless forced to it by her driver; but when she was left to do as she liked, she would trot with
all her might and main regardless of everything. At these times whippings—and I tried them faithfully and foolishly—only made her worse. The occasions for whipping any horse are very rare indeed, and yet how often we see horses cruelly beaten without cause and we do not lift a finger or speak a word in their defense, more shame to us!

I have known Jenny, if she were pulled up sharply when going rapidly from the house to the barn after a long drive, to stop dead still and refuse to go; if she were turned around and driven off into the road again, she would go nicely; but when we came back she would go to the barn as she set out to do in the first place, or she wouldn't go at all, so perverse was she.

She was very intelligent and quick to learn, and I taught her many funny tricks and ways. When I would say,"Good morning, Jenny," she would raise her right forward leg and shake hands forward or back as directmand [that's what it says and how it's spelled] she would put her ears forward or back as directed, open her mouth and laugh or yawn, sneeze, shut her eyes as if sleeping, follow me about like a dog, kiss me, etc. She knew my step and would often greet me with a whinny when she could hear me approaching but could not see me. When driving on the road I would say, "Jenny!" and she would give me her attention, throwing back her ears as if to listen ,and I would talk with her as with a companion. When some one has been riding with me I have many times known her ladyship to settle down to the most moderate pace and with ears back to listen as we conversed. As soon as we stopped talking she would start up and trot off as lively as ever.

In spite of her spells of willfullness I liked her very much. These periods were not frequent and they grew less so under kind treatment; but they were most uncertain and at times very inconvenient. I remember one time, during a muddy season, I took my pastor in to drive to the funeral for of one of my patients. We had our best cloths on, as people generaliy do when; the dominie's silk hat shone bright and his black overcoat was without a spot upon it when we started. I soon saw that Jenny was in an ugly mood, and I began to fear for our good clothes. She soon struck her usual pace in such moods. I pulled her up and she stopped, of course, with the usual signs of anger and disgust. Before she started again I had ample time to explain the situation to my companion. It was too muddy and the distance was too great for him to walk, so he must needs ride and take his chance. Jenny started at last, and hats, overcoats, blankets and buggy, and even the mare herself, were soon a sight to behold. We passed a stuttering man on a fence, who cried out:

"That's f-f-f-fun. Le-le-let her go, doctor!"

No doubt it was fun for him, and as for letting her go, there was little alternative. I could never get the minister to ride with me again when the roads were all muddy.

Did the state of my mind ever influence her! I sometimes thought it did. If I were nervous and irritable, she was likely to be so; if I were amiable, so was she generally. Many times, when she balked, I noticed there was also a balky spirit in me, and quite likely it was first in me. I am satisfied that naturally good horses are made vicious by bad trainers and drivers. If we were wise we would choose the teachers of our children and the trainers of our colts with greater care.

One morning in June Jenny was hitched in front of my office while I prepared some medicine for a patient. A man on horseback, his coat covered with foam and dust, rushed across the bridge, up the hill, and stopping in front of my office, shouted:

"Doctor!"

I went to the door, and the rider frantically yelled:

"Hank has cut his foot and is bleeding to death. He had fainted three times before I came away and you will have to hurry, doctor, if you save him."

It was the work of an instant to unfasten my horse, leap into the buggy and start. Hank was a farmer friend of mine four miles away, and I was made fearfully anxious by the words of the messenger. Jenny seemed to become so on the instant, for as soon as we turned around she settled herself for work and was off like a flash. I couldn't hold her. Pull as hard on the reins as I might, she would shake her head, throw back her ears and spitefully whisk her tail; but she kept steadily and rapidly going. As I passed Mr. Dobson's he called to me from his porch in a way that led me to think some member of his family must be very ill. But Jenny would on no account stop, and I soon drew up at Hank's gate.

Hank's father said:

"Thank God you are here!"

I soon had an effectual tourniquet on the fellow's leg, and in a little while a ligature on the bleeding vessel, and he was saved. A few minutes more of hemorrhage and he would have been a dead man. As soon as I could I hurried back to Mr. Dobson's and the mare had to be pushed quite considerably to make her hurry. Mr. Dobson met me at his gate. I asked:

"Who is sick!"

"Why, that is what I wanted to ask you," he replied.

I told him and drove thoughtfully homeward. Life often hangs upon a whim, a thought, a question. A moment's hesitation, the gratification of idle curiosity or something equally small, has robbed the world of many valuable lives and changed the destiny of nations.


Part II

One evening in the early springtime I was called to Mr. Briggs' on the point. The weather was warm, but the ice on the bay was still good and I drove across it. thus saving full three miles travel over hard roads. The case was such as to detain me twenty-four hours. When the patient was in a condition to leave, it was again evening, after a comparatively warm day. I had intended to drive back across the ice, the same way that I came, but an aged neighbor. Mr. Sprague, said:

"You hadn't better do it, doctor. The ice has growed poor very fast today. You'd better go round."

I started to obey his injunction, and had driven perhaps a half mile along the shore when, with the usual thoughtlessness of young manhood and little experience, I decided: "This is nonsense. The ice was good last night and it couldn't have failed much in this length of time. It is freezing a little, too, and I'll risk it."

Soon after, much against Jenny's inclination. I drove on to the ice. We had passed over a hundred rods or more when all at once two of the mare's feet went through: she recovered herself and moved on briskly. It is hardly necessary to say that I was somewhat frightened and concluded to regain the shore, if possible. I made an effort to pull her in, and she was inclined to stop then again a foot went through, and again she moved
forward briskly, shaking her head and whisking her tail.

We were soon a mile from the shore we had left, and headed for the other shore two miles away. It now became plainly evident that the ice on every side was dangerous. I would gladly have gone back over the course I had come, but the mare had taken things into her own hands, as it were, and was going home. In rapid motion was our greatest safety and I did not attempt to restrain her pace.

My thoughts and feelings on that broad, treacherous. bay, alone at night, I am unable fully to describe. I had been for more than three years in the army, and had met death with a crowd often, but to face it thus was a different thing. I thought of my wife and children at home, looking impatiently and longing for my return, and little knowing the plight I was in. I thought of that provision I had made for them in case of my death, and every unkind word I had spoken to them came back to be regretted. But what surprises me most is that my thoughts dwelt so much on my boyhood and my early home; my mother and her teachings: my father, with his stern, manly ways: my brothers and sisters whom I loved. and who, I had every reason to believe, loved me dearly. As I remembered my mother I instinctively prayed:

"Now I lay me down to sleep,"

and smiled as I thought of the inappropriateness of the prayer under such circumstances. While I thought of all my dear ones, bitterly did I regret having left the solid land.

While I was thinking. Jenny was speeding on, and we were now within a mile of shore, when an open stretch of water appeared ahead and the mare was going directly for it. I tried to turn her on one side, but in vain: her head was down and she was rushing blindly along. I cried:

''Jen. you fool, see where you are going!"

As I spoke her name she tossed up her head and saw the water only a few rods away: she tried to stop, but her speed was such she could not. I prepared to leap from the cutter, but hesitated. Suddenly she turned to the right: the cutter, sliding along the ice to the very edge of the open water. struck something, raised up on one runner - Paused an instant just on the verge of going over, settled back with both runners on the ice, and we were speeding away on a course at right angles to the one we had been pursuing.

We were now pointed for the head of the bay, and I as satisfied we could not get off the ice there, but as I as only a passenger I must be content to go with the mare or get out and walk. She was going so fast that it was dangerous to leap out, and I decided to stay and assume the result. Running from Colewood to Tyler's there was a wood road that had been used very much that winter. Continual travel over it when the snow was falling or drifting had packed layer on layer until this was really the strongest place on the bay, and towards this road we were now moving. At last we reached it, and the little mare giving a cheerful whinny, bore to the left along it. In five minutes more we were on the shore at Tyler's, and safe. It was a narrow escape for us both. Relieved and thoughtful, I leaped from the cutter, ran to her head and patted her dripping neck with my hand. You will hardly believe it, but the trembling, wearied mare put her nose to my cheek and kissed me. Saying, "Bless you. Jenny," I shook hands with her again and again, and with a heart filled with gratitude I drove slowly homeward. That night she was well rubbed down, blanketed and cared for, if never before.


Part III
For seven year's we were much of the time together. Night and day, in rain and shine, week day and Sunday, in heat and cold, in season and out of
season, wearied or rested, the general practitioner of medicine in the country must heed the call of the sick and the suffering. For him there are
no certain hours of rest from toil and anxiety. Other occupations and professions can be reasonably sure of the night and the Sabbath for needed rest and recuperation, but the doctor never. As with the physician, so with his faithful horse. Jenny and I worked on and, to ward the last, worked hard, too hard for me, and one December morning I awoke to find myself sick. During the next three months I learned what it is to be really ill;
I came to know pain from personal experience. It was March before I again drew rein over Jenny's back. When I came out to get into the cutter she was wondrous glad to see me and manifested her joy in many ways. She whinnied, rested her nose gently on my shoulder, put up her right foot for a shake and, as we rode along, did not behave at all badly, as though she knew how weak and sick I was.

For a year I tried to do business, but with poor success; my former health would not come back to me. At the end of the year I decided to change my vocation and my residence for awhile, hoping that health would come with the change. What to do with Jenny I did not know. I could not find it in my heart to sell her, for not one man in a thousand would treat her fairly, bear patiently and wisely with her follies and never abuse her. My father- in-law was a farmer, and to him I took her to be pastured.

She was to use her for keeping, but in a few days he brought her back, declaring he would not take her to keep as a gift. I then let father have her to keep and use until my return. I should have said before this that nothing would induce her to do common work: she would not draw a bushel of potatoes if she knew it. She seemed to have high notions, and would only perform genteel road work, and that was what disgusted my father-in-law.

I went to a town in the west where I had some friends, and remained there for over a year. My health becoming very much improved, I resolved to return to my profesional labors. At first my people wrote me occasionally about Jenny and her wayward actions, but of late I had heard nothing concerning her.

At breakfast, on the morning after my arrival home I asked:

"And how is old Jenny? I am anxious to see her."

Jenny," said my father, with a laugh. "Why, I traded her off long ago for a horse of my own."

"Traded Jenny off!" I cried. "How could you without my consent?"

"I didn't suppose you cared much for her. She was getting somewhat stiff forward and had a cough; besides, she was very disagreeable in her ways. I am sorry you care so much about it."

"Who has her now?"

"I don't know. The man I traded with, lives up north somewhere."

It is not necessary to say I was deeply disappointed, but I did not let father know how much I regretted his art.

He told me of an experience he had had with her coming from Adams one night. He had been to Oswego on some important business and came back to Adams on the evening train. He had over two thousand dollars with him, a portion of which he desired to leave at the bank. The bank was closed for the day, of course, but he hunted up the cashier and counted out to him from a huge roll of bills the amount he wished to deposit, and
then returned to his hotel. Afterwards while talking with the hotel proprietor, the cashier came in and said to him aloud:

"John, I wish you would leave the rest of that money with us a few days, for we would like the use of it very much."

Father replied: " I can't do it, George; I would like but it is impossible."

Mr. Bond and father continued conversing for a few minutes, and a couple of strangers who were sitting by the stove got up and went out. Not long afterwards Jenny was brought to the door and father got into his buggy and drove homeward. Before he reached the Saunders place two men in a carriage overtook him and reigned out to go by; but once more in her life Jenny said decidedlv. "No," and taking matters in her own charge was off like the wind. Father didn't like to ride so fast in the dark, so he pulled her up and she stopped dead still. Again the men came up and attempted
to pass, but Jenny was off again as before. When he reached George Mather's residence father drew her up to the hitching post, and she stopped and rubbed her nose against the post, but as the strangers drove up, away she went as if possessed of wings. Then down through the lonely stretch of swamp they sped, the men behind pressing their steed to keep close in the rear. Father heard one of them say with an oath:

" What kind of a horse has he got, anyway?''

In reply. "I've a good mind to shoot."

"No, let's not do any shooting tonight. Bill." Then, like a flash, it came to father what they were after: but in a short time they reached Overton's, and his pursuers turned around, one of them saying:

"It's no use, Tom: we may as well go back."

For a little way Jenny kept up her mad speed, then settled down to her ordinary gait and continued it until she reached home.

Father is far more practical than sentimental, and as she was hardly fitted to his business, having too high notions, he traded her off, as he said, "for one of his own."

For months I looked closely at every little bay horse I saw, hoping to find Jenny, but without avail.

CONCLUSION
Two years passed away, and one day, in Watertown, I was walking along a street when suddenly in front of me I heard a shrill whinny and saw, hitched to a post, a horse going through the strangest kinds of antics. It would back up and then rush ahead, raise its right front foot in the air open its mouth, whisk its tail, shake its head, etc. I went around in front and recognized Jenny, but so changed! One eye was gone—had probably been
knocked out; her knees were bent and stiff; her body was covered with bruises; her ribs could be easily counted rods away, and there were many marked points about her that I never saw before.

It was pitiful to look upon her and note how she must have been abused during these years since I owned her. Poor girl, she was glad enough to see me. She shook hands with me again, laid her dear old nose on my shoulder and said, as well as horse can say:

"At last, at last, dear master, you have come. Take me back again; take me home with you, and I will be good and faithful as long as I shall live."

If I started to move off she would get fearfully excited, and continue so until I came back and stood beside her.

She had the worst rig for a harness I ever saw. It was made up of ropes, straps, strings and rags, and the vehicle to which she was attached compared well with the harness. The proprietor of the concern, when he appeared, was about what I expected to see. I will not wrong a brute by calling him one. The first thing he did when he came up was to strike Jenny a fearful blow with the butt of the heavy whip which he carried in his
hand.

"Do that again," said I, "and I will knock vou down."

I was too much moved to be cool, but my words drew his attention to me and he proposed to lick me on the spot. I informed him that the opportunity was open to him if he wished to try it. He was a coward, however, and I did not get whipped.

Successful negotiations were then entered into by, which Jenny again became mine. She was soon stripped of her wretched toggery and in a good stall, with a new halter on her head, she was eating as good a dinner as the hotel barn could supply. The next day, when I led her home, my neighbors laughed at me; but as Jenny laughed too, I did not mind their jeers.

I hired a faithful groom to wash her all over, from her head to her heels, and put emollient ointments on her bruises and wounds. I caused a warm, comfortable, well ventilated box stall to be built for her express use. In a short time her late cruel owner would not have known her, for good food, pure water, clean bedding and excellent grooming wrought a marvelous change in her; but, in spite of all, the scars and other evidences of years of cruel treatment could not be eradicated. I had a glass eye made for her, which took away one glaring defect, except when it got displaced; which, I am glad to say, did not occur often.

For many years I used her for my short drives of a mile or more out of town. Occasionally the old spirit would seize her, and for a few yards she would try the old game again, but her stiff knees and shortness of breath would soon bring her down to a sensible pace befitting her years.

At the back of my house were a few acres of pasturage that ran down to and along the river bank. Here, in the summer time. Jenny was kept on sweet, tender grass and pure running water. Having eaten her fill it was her custom to repair to the river bank and lie down under the shade of a wide-spreading maple, with a soft carpet of grass for her bed and the cool winds from across the river fauning her. I have often, in the heat of the day, visited her there and rejoiced with all my heart to see the peace and happiness that were hers in her last days.

On going to visit her one lovely October day I found her in her accustomed place—dead. We made a grave for her beneath the maple, smoothed it down evenly and covered it with sod. There she sleeps, with the gentle winds of summer whispering through the branches above her and stirring the grasses that grow over her, while the river makes sweet music as it sweeps by toward the lake. In winter kind nature almost invariably spreads above her resting place a thick covering of pure, soft white snow.

As I ride about the country behind her only daughter I often think of Jenny and wonder, foolishly, of course, if sometime and somewhere I shall not draw rein over her again.

Note: Some entries on this site may not directly relate to Belleville but are connected in some way to an individual
that was born in Belleville or lived in Belleville as part of the local community.

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