Scant-maned, sharp-backed, and shaky-knee'd,
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!
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.
As through the jeering crowd he past
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.
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.
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 of something like a stride.
"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!
Before the quarter pole was past,
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 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 followed 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 happened 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;
"The time was two-too dee-vel-ish 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 wondered what it
meant,
And murmured, 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 !”
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.
GOOD common sense iz az helthy az onions; we often see thoze who are good simply bekauze they haint got sense enuff tew be bad, and thoze who are bad just bekause they haint got sense enuff tew be good.
The man who don't kno himself iz a poor judge ov the other phellow. JOSH BILLINGS.
[Mr. Adams has only published one small volume of poems, and, "moving only in the mercantile world," he modestly deprecates criticism which his original genius need never cause him to fear. His style is in many ways akin to that of Hans Breitmann.]
SEQUEL TO THE "ONE-HORSE SHAY."
DOUBTLESS my readers all have heard
Of the "wonderful one-horse shay"
That "went to pieces all at once
On the terrible earthquake-day.
But did they ever think of the horse,
Or mourn the loss of him—
The "ewe-necked bay" (who drew the "shay"),
He was much attached to his ancient mate;
So the parson
"hitched them together;
And when they went on their bridle tour,
His heart was light as a feather.
We all remember her awful fate,
On that sad November day,
When nothing remained but a heap of trash,
That once was a beautiful shay.
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