Better? Well, I'm glad to hear it!
Yes, they're mighty pretty, Joe.
Smellin' of 'em's made you happy?
Well, I thought it would, you know!
7. Never see the country, did you?
Flowers growin' every-where!
Sometime when you're better, Joey,
Mebbe I kin take you there.
Flowers in heaven? 'M-I s'pose so;
Dunno much about it, though;
Aint as fly as wot I might be
On them topics, little Joe.
8. "But I've heard it hinted somewheres
That in heaven's golden gates
Things is everlastin' cheerful—
B'lieve that's wot the Bible states.
Likewise, there folks don't git hungry;
So good people, when they dies,
Finds themselves well fixed forever—
Joe, my boy, wot ails your eyes?
9. "Thought they looked a little sing❜ler.
O, no! Don't you have no fear;
Heaven was made fur such as you is-
Joe, wot makes you look so queer?
Here-wake up! O, don't look that way!
Joe! My boy! Hold up yer head!
Here's yer flowers-you dropped 'em, Joey!
O, my God! can Joe be dead ?”
How the Old Horse Won the Bet.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
1. 'Twas on the famous trotting-ground,
The betting men were gathered round
From far and rear; the "cracks" were there
Whose deeds the sporting prints declare:
The swift g. m., Old Hiram's nag,
The fleet s. h., Don Pfeiffer's brag,
With these a third-and who is he
That stands beside his fast b. g. ?
Budd Doble, whose catarrhal name
So fills the nasal trump of fame.
There, too, stood many a noted steed
Of Messenger, and Morgan breed;
Green horses also, not a few-
Unknown as yet what they could do;
And all the hacks that know so well
The scourgings of the Sunday swell.
2. Blue are the skies of opening day;
The bordering turf is green with May;
The sunshine's golden gleam is thrown
On sorrel, chestnut, bay, and roan;
The horses paw and prance and neigh;
Fillies and colts like kittens play,
And dance and toss their rippled manes
Shining and soft as silken skeins;
Wagons and gigs are ranged about,
And fashion flaunts her gay turnout:
Here stands each youthful Jehu's dream-
The jointed tandem, ticklish team!
And there in ampler breadth expand
The splendors of the four-in-hand;
On faultless ties and glossy tiles
The lovely bonnets beam their smiles;
(The style's the man, so books avow;
The style's the woman anyhow ;)
From flounces frothed with creamy lace
Peeps out the pug-dog's smutty face,
Or spaniel rolls his liquid eye,
Or stares the wiry pet of Skye,—
O woman, in your hours of ease
So shy with us, so free with these!
3. "Come on! I'll bet you two to one I'll make him do it!"
"Will you? Done!"
What was it who was bound to do?
I did not hear, and can't tell you;
Pray listen till my story's through.
4. Scarce noticed, back behind the rest,
By cart and wagon rudely prest,
The parson's lean and bony bay,
Stood harnessed in his one-horse shay-
Lent to his sexton for the day.
(A funeral-so the sexton said;
His mother's uncle's wife was dead.)
Like Lazarus bid to Dives's feast,
So looked the poor forlorn old beast;
His coat was rough, his tail was bare,
The gray was sprinkled in his hair:
Sportsmen and jockeys knew him not,
And yet they say he once could trot
Among the fleetest of the town,
Till something cracked and broke him down—
The steed's the statesman's common lot!
"And are we then so soon forgot?"
Ah me! I doubt if one of you
Has ever heard the name
Whose fame through all this region rung
In those old days when I was young!
5. "Bring forth the horse!" Alas! he showed
Not like the one Mazeppa rode:
Scant-maned, sharp-backed and shaky-kneed,
The wreck of what was once a steed
Lips thin, eyes hollow, stiff in joints;
Yet not without his knowing points.
The sexton laughing in his sleeve,
As if 'twere all a make-believe,
Led forth the horse, and as he laughed
Unhitched the breeching from a shaft,
Unclasped the rusty belt beneath,
Drew forth the snaffle from his teeth,
Slipped off his head-stall, set him free
From strap and rein-a sight to see!
6. So worn, so lean in every limb,
It can't be they are saddling him!
It is! His back the pig-skin strides,
And flaps his lank rheumatic sides;
With look of mingled scorn and mirth
They buckle round the saddle-girth;
With horsey wink and saucy toss
A youngster throws his leg across.
And so, his rider on his back,
They lead him, limping, to the track,
Far up behind the starting-point,
To limber out each stiffened joint.
7. As through the jeering crowd he passed,
One pitying look old Hiram cast;
"Go it, ye cripple, while ye can!"
Cried out unsentimental Dan;
“A fast-day dinner for the crows!"
Budd Doble's scoffing shout arose,
8. 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 dragged 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.
9. 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 at something like a stride.
10. "Go!"-Through his ear the summons stung, As if a battle-trump had rung;
The slumbering instincts long unstirred
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 pricked his staring hide
Unheeded tore his bleeding side;
Alike to him are spur and rein—
He steps a five-year-old again!
11. Before a quarter pole was passed,
Old Hiram said, "He's going fast."
Long ere the quarter was a half,
The chuckling crowd had ceased to laugh;
Tighter his frightened jockey clung
As in a mighty stride he swung,
The gravel flying in his track,
His neck stretched out, his ears laid back,
His tail extended all the while
Behind him like a rat-tail file!
Off went a shoe-away it spun,
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 goThat 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.
|