Slowly, as when the walking-beam
First feels the gathering head of steam,
With warning cough and threatening wheeze
The stiff old charger crooks his knees;
At first with cautious step sedate,
As if he dragg'd a coach of state;
He's not a colt; he knows full well
That time is weight and sure to tell;
No horse so sturdy but he fears
The handicap of twenty years.

As through the throng on either hand
The old horse nears the judges' stand,
Beneath his jockey's feather-weight
He warms a little to his gait,

And now and then a step is tried

That hints to something like a stride.

"Go!" -Through his ear the summons stung, As if a battle-trump had rung;

The slumbering instincts long unstirr'd
Start at the old familiar word;

It thrills like flame through every limb,
What mean his twenty years to him?
The savage blow his rider dealt
Fell on his hollow flanks unfelt;
The spur that prick'd his staring hide
Unheeded tore his bleeding side;
Alike to him are spur and rein,
He steps a five-year-old again!

Before a quarter pole was pass'd,
Old Hiram said, "He's going fast."

Long ere the quarter was a half,

The chuckling crowd had ceased to laugh;
Tighter his frighten'd jockey clung
As in a mighty stride he swung,

The gravel flying in his track,

His neck stretch'd out, his ears laid back,

His tail extended all the while

Behind him like a rat-tail file!

Shot like a bullet from a gun;

The quaking jockey shapes a prayer
From scraps of oaths he used to swear;

He drops his whip, he drops his rein,

He clutches fiercely for a mane;

He'll lose his hold,

he sways and reels,

He'll slide beneath those trampling heels!

The knees of many a horseman quake,

The flowers on many a bonnet shake,

And shouts arise from left and right,

"Stick on! stick on!" "Hould tight! hould tight!"

"Cling round his neck; and don't let go,

That pace can't hold, — there! steady! whoa!"

But, like the sable steed that bore

The spectral lover of Lenore,

His nostrils snorting foam and fire,
No stretch his bony limbs can tire;
And now the stand he rushes by,
And "Stop him! stop him!" is the cry.
"Stand back! he's only just begun,

He's having out three heats in one!"

"Don't rush in front! he'll smash your brains ;

But follow up and grab the reins!"

Old Hiram spoke. Dan Pfeiffer heard,
And sprang, impatient, at the word:
Budd Doble started on his bay,
Old Hiram follow'd on his gray,

And off they spring, and round they go,

The fast ones doing "all they know.”
Look! twice they follow at his heels,
As round the circling course he wheels,
And whirls with him that clinging boy
Like Hector round the walls of Troy.
Still on, and on, the third time round!
They're tailing off! they're losing ground!
Budd Doble's nag begins to fail!

Dan Pfeiffer's sorrel whisks his tail!
And see! in spite of whip and shout,
Old Hiram's mare is giving out!
Now for the finish! At the turn,
The old horse all the rest astern -
Comes swinging in, with easy trot;
By Jove! he's distanced all the lot!
That trot no mortal could explain;
Some said, "Old Dutchman come again!
Some took his time, at least, they tried,
But what it was could none decide;
One said he couldn't understand
What happen'd to his second-hand;
One said 2:10; that couldn't be,
More like two twenty-two or three;
Old Hiram settled it at last:

66 The time was two, too mighty fast!"

The parson's horse had won the bet;
It cost him something of a sweat;
Back in the one-horse shay he went.
The parson wonder'd what it meant,
And murmur'd, with a mild surprise
And pleasant twinkle of the eyes,
"That funeral must have been a trick,
Or corpses drive at double quick;
I shouldn't wonder, I declare,

If Brother Murray made the prayer!"

99

And this is all I have to say

About the parson's poor old bay,

The same that drew the one-horse shay.

Moral for which this tale is told:

A horse can trot, for all he's old.

TOM'S LITTLE STAR.

FANNY FOSTER.

SWEET Mary, pledged to Tom, was fair
And graceful, young and slim :
Tom loved her truly, and one dare
Be sworn that she loved him;
For, twisting bashfully the ring
That seal'd the happy fiat,

She coo'd," When married in the Spring,
Dear Tom, let's live so quiet!

Let's have our pleasant little place,
Our books, a friend or two;

No noise, no crowd, but just your face

For me, and mine for you.

Won't that be nice!"

"It is my own

Idea," said Tom, "so chary,

So deep and true, my love has grown,
I worship you, my Mary."

She was a tender, nestling thing,
A girl that loved her home,
A sort of dove with folded wing,
A bird not made to roam,
But gently rest her little claw

(The simile to carry)

Within a husband's stronger paw,

The very girl to marry.

Their courtship was a summer sea,
So smooth, so bright, so calm,
Till one day Mary restlessly
Endured Tom's circling arm,
And look'd as if she thought or plann'd,
Her satin forehead wrinkled,

She beat a tattoo on his hand,

Her eyes were strange and twinkled.

She never heard Tom's fond remarks,
His sweety-tweety dear,"

66

Or noticed once the little larks

He play'd to make her hear. "What ails," he begg'd, "my petsy pet? What ails my love, I wonder?" "Do not be trifling, Tom. I've met Professor Shakespeare Thunder."

66

"Thunder!" said Tom; " and who is he?"

"You goose! why, don't you know?" "I don't." She never frown'd at me,

Or call'd me goose. "And though," Thought Tom, it may be playfulness, It racks my constitution."

66

Why, Thunder teaches with success
Dramatic elocution."

"O! Ah!

Indeed! and what is that?

My notion is but faint."

"It's art," said Mary, brisk and pat. Tom thought that "art" meant paint. 'You blundering boy! why, art is just What makes one stare and wonder.

66

To understand high art you must
Hear Shakespeare read by Thunder."

Tom started at the turn of phrase;

It sounded like a swear.