{"id":"01KG8AMZ1X74NAZV9HYH84JNPH","cid":"bafkreifvtrcvl4od4dtm65twfisuwc7inot2walu7pd33p4vmm7hrgtfwa","type":"chunk","properties":{"end_line":1423,"extracted_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:52.918Z","extracted_by":"structure-extraction-lambda","label":"Chunk 2","source_file":"01KG89J1JSYKSGCE149MH9HF6A","start_line":1354,"text":"his stable slaves, if grand old Pierre found one horse unblanketed, or\r\none weed among the hay that filled their rack. Not that he ever had\r\nCranz, Kit, Douw, or any of them flogged--a thing unknown in that\r\npatriarchal time and country--but he would refuse to say his wonted\r\npleasant word to them; and that was very bitter to them, for Cranz, Kit,\r\nDouw, and all of them, loved grand old Pierre, as his shepherds loved\r\nold Abraham.\r\n\r\nWhat decorous, lordly, gray-haired steed is this? What old Chaldean\r\nrides abroad?--'Tis grand old Pierre; who, every morning before he eats,\r\ngoes out promenading with his saddle-beast; nor mounts him, without\r\nfirst asking leave. But time glides on, and grand old Pierre grows old:\r\nhis life's glorious grape now swells with fatness; he has not the\r\nconscience to saddle his majestic beast with such a mighty load of\r\nmanliness. Besides, the noble beast himself is growing old, and has a\r\ntouching look of meditativeness in his large, attentive eyes. Leg of\r\nman, swears grand old Pierre, shall never more bestride my steed; no\r\nmore shall harness touch him! Then every spring he sowed a field with\r\nclover for his steed; and at mid-summer sorted all his meadow grasses,\r\nfor the choicest hay to winter him; and had his destined grain thrashed\r\nout with a flail, whose handle had once borne a flag in a brisk battle,\r\ninto which this same old steed had pranced with grand old Pierre; one\r\nwaving mane, one waving sword!\r\n\r\nNow needs must grand old Pierre take a morning drive; he rides no more\r\nwith the old gray steed. He has a phaeton built, fit for a vast General,\r\nin whose sash three common men might hide. Doubled, trebled are the\r\nhuge S shaped leather springs; the wheels seem stolen from some mill;\r\nthe canopied seat is like a testered bed. From beneath the old archway,\r\nnot one horse, but two, every morning now draw forth old Pierre, as the\r\nChinese draw their fat god Josh, once every year from out his fane.\r\n\r\nBut time glides on, and a morning comes, when the phaeton emerges not;\r\nbut all the yards and courts are full; helmets line the ways;\r\nsword-points strike the stone steps of the porch; muskets ring upon the\r\nstairs; and mournful martial melodies are heard in all the halls. Grand\r\nold Pierre is dead; and like a hero of old battles, he dies on the eve\r\nof another war; ere wheeling to fire on the foe, his platoons fire over\r\ntheir old commander's grave; in A. D. 1812, died grand old Pierre. The\r\ndrum that beat in brass his funeral march, was a British kettle-drum,\r\nthat had once helped beat the vain-glorious march, for the thirty\r\nthousand predestined prisoners, led into sure captivity by that bragging\r\nboy, Burgoyne.\r\n\r\nNext day the old gray steed turned from his grain; turned round, and\r\nvainly whinnied in his stall. By gracious Moyar's hand, he refuses to be\r\npatted now; plain as horse can speak, the old gray steed says--\"I smell\r\nnot the wonted hand; where is grand old Pierre? Grain me not, and groom\r\nme not;--Where is grand old Pierre?\"\r\n\r\nHe sleeps not far from his master now; beneath the field he cropt, he\r\nhas softly lain him down; and long ere this, grand old Pierre and steed\r\nhave passed through that grass to glory.\r\n\r\nBut his phaeton--like his plumed hearse, outlives the noble load it\r\nbore. And the dark bay steeds that drew grand old Pierre alive, and by\r\nhis testament drew him dead, and followed the lordly lead of the led\r\ngray horse; those dark bay steeds are still extant; not in themselves or\r\nin their issue; but in the two descendants of stallions of their own\r\nbreed. For on the lands of Saddle Meadows, man and horse are both\r\nhereditary; and this bright morning Pierre Glendinning, grandson of\r\ngrand old Pierre, now drives forth with Lucy Tartan, seated where his\r\nown ancestor had sat, and reining steeds, whose\r\ngreat-great-great-grandfathers grand old Pierre had reined before.\r\n\r\nHow proud felt Pierre: In fancy's eye, he saw the horse-ghosts a-tandem\r\nin the van; \"These are but wheelers\"--cried young Pierre--\"the leaders\r\nare the generations.\"\r\n\r\n\r","title":"Chunk 2"},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KG8AJS090RCJAXBZYBTDPKMJ","peer_type":"chapter","predicate":"in"},{"peer":"01KG89J1JSYKSGCE149MH9HF6A","peer_type":"file","predicate":"extractedFrom"},{"peer":"01KG89HMDZKNY753EZE1CJ8HZW","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"},{"peer":"01KG8AMZ1XHFD7CWFD2XVGJGHH","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"prev"}],"ver":2,"created_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:54.333Z","ts":"2026-01-30T20:49:03.017Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFF0H3YRP9ZSM033AM0QJ47H"}}