From award-winning author Marguerite Henry comes a classic reference work about horses and their origins. How did the Morgan horse get its name? What are the differences between a Belgian and a Clydesdale? Why are the Byerly Turk, Darley Arabian, and Godolphin Arabian so important? Find the answers to these and many other intriguing questions in Marguerite Henry’s Album of Horses . The award-winning author of Misty of Chincoteague and King of the Wind describes in vivid detail the hardworking Shire, the elegant Lipizzan, the spirited Mustang, and many more. Each description is paired with a full color illustration by Wesley Dennis. This keepsake edition is a gorgeous addition to any collection of Henry’s books and a favorite for years to come! How did the Morgan horse get its name? What are the differences between a Belgian and a Clydesdale? Why are the Byerly Turk, Darley Arabian, and Godolphin Arabian so important? Find the answers to these and many other intriguing questions in Marguerite Henry's Album of Horses . The award-winning author of the wonderful stories Misty of Chincoteague, King of the Wind, and Brighty of the Grand Canyon , Marguerite Henry describes in vivid detail the hardworking Shire, the elegant Lipizzan, the spirited Mustang, and many more. Never before have facts about horses been more accessible, and with Wesley Dennis's classic illustrations highlighting every page, this unique collection is sure to be treasured by horse lovers of all ages. Marguerite Henry (1902–1997) was the beloved author of such classic horse stories as King of the Wind , Misty of Chincoteague , and Stormy, Misty’s Foal , and her work has won several Newbery Awards and Honors. Wesley Dennis was best known for his illustrations in collaboration with author Marguerite Henry. They published sixteen books together. Album of Horses By Marguerite Henry Aladdin Copyright © 1993 Marguerite Henry All right reserved. ISBN: 0689717091 The American Saddle Horse THE LITTLE OLD MAN shuffled into the grandstand and looked around happily. Sometimes a fellow had to do things on the spur of the moment, like stopping off at the State Fair. Made him feel coltish. It had been a long time since he'd seen a good show for his money. A warm feeling came over him as he opened his program to the same page as the other folks had theirs. He could read the big type without his glasses. SADDLE HORSE DIVISION -- OPEN FIVE -- GATED CLASS. He wouldn't bother with the tiny flyspeck type. Didn't know horses or riders any more anyway. The announcer's voice cut in. "Reverse your horses, please. We will now repeat all five gaits going clockwise of the ring. Trot your horses, please." The old man let himself be lost in the ring. Bay horses, a gray, sorrel horses with flaxen tails, sorrels with dark tails. And then, flashing from behind, a blue-black stallion -- his coat shining like a beetle in the sun. "Shades of Rex McDonald!" the old man gasped, his eyes fondling the animal as if some dream had suddenly taken form. He sat bolt upright, his mind leaping across the years. He was a young man, watching a young horse. No! He was that horse. That blue-black bullet, prancing around the rings, all over Kentucky, all over Missouri. Walking, trotting, cantering, stepping, racking. He was grand champion of the world. He was Rex McDonald! Eyes fixed on the black image, he fumbled for gold-rimmed glasses, found them, put them on. Now for a look at the entries' names. Number Seven -- Rex Midnight. "The blood is there; his blood!" Bay horses, sorrel horses, horses with white markings. Colors blurred in the old eyes like raindrops coming together on a windowpane. How long had they been trotting down there in the ring? One minute? Five minutes? That girl on Number Seven. "Let 'im go, girl. Pick the snaffle to set his head. You're plucking a harpstring, girl. Be delicate fingered." The announcer's voice was a quick patter in time to the trot. "It's an open class, ladies and gentlemen. Open to horses of all ages, open to all riders. " Oldtimer's eyes were everywhere at once, comparing, judging. That sorrel with the flaxen tail. Mostly looks. He felt an elbow in his ribs, heard a young voice say, "Look at that black beauty pop his hocks! He's good fore and aft! " Pride welled up in the old man. "'Course he's good. Got Rex McDonald's blood." "Too bad he's slow, though." "Slow? He ain't slow! See that sorrel trotting in front and hopping behind? That's what happens when you take 'em on too fast." Along the rail grooms and owners were crying to the riders as they went by. "Set his head! Take him on! Gather him!" The old man cried out, too. "Just let him tromp, girl! " But his voice was lost in the boom of the loudspeaker. "Walk your horses. Let them walk, please." Twice around the ring. All the horses going airy and bright. Oldtimer caught snatches of talk around him. "Only two amateurs riding, the man on the gray and the