| To The Appaloosa Dream horse, beautiful Spots, dancing in the Winter sun. Show me Joseph's heritage. A nation, lost at Bear Paw. Snow covered the ground, silent. Speaks now the chief. Hear me. ....FROM WHERE THE SUN.... So many of them gone. Braves, proud, they fought on Through Montana. Cold Were the children, dead. ....NOW STANDS, I WILL.... Wanting only a home, theirs by birthright. Mountain valleys held herds of spotted ones. ....FIGHT NO MORE.... Voices are gone, echoes of a greatness, once. Only the spotted ones are left to tell Old Joseph's story. ....FOREVER.... by Mary Lynn Walker |
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| Old Clegg He's an old Appaloosa with spots, of course, But for a kid's pony you couldn't beat that horse. He never won ribbons where they prance and jolt, Though the dinner bell derby he won as a colt. He had a big barrel but his heart was lots bigger, And I always suspected that old horse could figger. He could run and cut cattle with a man on his back, But boost up a kid that sat like a sack, And you'd see that old feller take it easy and slow, He knew that the kid didn't know nothin' but "whoa". If he had the kid for a long enough spell, He'd make him a cowboy come highwater or hell. For if the kid got cocky and began to act cute, Clegg would snort and buckjump and let out a toot. When things got settled the old easy way. He'd pack that kid the livelong day. He was easy to catch and he'd put his head down low, So the boy could climb on and away they'd go. Up through the coulees and away through the trees, The two of them free as a summer's breeze. Or they'd swim in the river and both all wet, Out they'd come all cooled, I can see them yet; That fat old horse with the speckled hide, And the proud little kid who sat astride. You can have stylish horses or those that race, Or headin' or heelin' ones that ropin' steers chase; You can have doggin' horses but don't think me queer, If I choose old Clegg, anytime, with his spotted rear. by Lucile Canfield |
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| Updated January 3, 2003 |
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| The Birth Of A Black Leopard Foal From High in the clouds, they look down on Earth, Spring is the time for many a birth. "This Horse is my favorite, Help me Good Chief, " The Great Spirit asks, "I need you to spot the Appaloosa I love." And so the Nez Perce Chief gladly takes over the task, to color each foal's pattern different, from high up above. As He paints the blankets with all kinds and colors of spots, big, small and some only dots. The Chief misses his spotted beauties and it makes Him sad, with memories of the plains where he roamed as a Lad. So sometimes as tears of Chief Joseph, wiped by his hand, still fall toward the Earth. The Great Spirit guides them through dark clouds, and they land at a birth. To a selected few, snow-white hides they will fall. To only the chosen ones, not to all. They spot the pure white, with tears of jet black. Spots shaped like tear drops, bear paws, or maybe an animal's track. See the handprint of a Chief that spots the white? The completed painting Oh! What a sight! Seen by the human eye, brings a cry of joy, A Black Leopard Foal! the Brightest of the bright! The Chief looks down, a smile replaces the tears, He has spotted a special one, someone has waited for, for years. A Black Leopard Foal! The Great Spirit paints only a few foals with the Chief's grief, these are the ones that can take away the Chief's grief, And replace it with magic, and make these foals stand true, A Black Leopard Foal! prized by Breeders like me and you. Their births are wished for, they seem not to be planned, The Great Spirit gives them only, From the Tears off Chief Joseph's Hand --- by Lois Williams 1996 |
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| American Treasure You were first cherished by the great Nez Perce', Fleet of foot, you followed alongside the mighty buffalo, Loyal and fearless, you carried brave warriors into battle, Noble and kind, you allowed the children to play at your feet. Across the plains to the mountains, marched your sturdy legs, Racing down the flat meadow, your stamina unmatched, Stoically standing among trees, spots providing camouflage from enemies, Your wise human-like eyes saw all, and understood. Your world is changing, but you adapt to your new life, Traits carefully bred for by your people are now prized by all, Instead of chasing buffalo, you swiftly herd cattle into pens, Your intelligence and courage now needed in the battle of competition. Once racing across a prairie, now your striped hooves pound on the track, With strength you soar gracefully over jump after jump, Your colorful coat, once selected for protection, now a flashy decoration, Gently you lower your head for a child to stroke your speckled muzzle. You are the true American treasure: THE APPALOOSA. by Sara J. Wilder |