The One Hoss Shay - LightNovelsOnl.com
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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 st.u.r.dy 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.
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"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 p.r.i.c.ked 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!
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Off went a shoe,--away it spun, Shot like a bullet from a gun; The quaking jockey shapes a prayer From sc.r.a.ps of oaths he used to swear; He drops his whip, he drops his rein, He clutches fiercely for a mane;
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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.
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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."
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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!
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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 finis.h.!.+ at the turn, The old horse--all the rest astern,-- Comes swinging in, with easy trot; By Jove! he's distanced all the lot!
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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-hoss 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--Jehu--made the prayer!"
And this is all I have to say About that tough old trotting bay.
Huddup! Huddup! G'lang!--Good-day!
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Moral for which this tale is told: A horse _can_ trot, for all he's old.
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The
BROOMSTICK TRAIN
or
The Return of the WITCHES
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THE BROOMSTICK TRAIN
Look out! Look out, boys! Clear the track!
The witches are here! They've all come back!
They hanged them high,--No use! No use!
What cares a witch for a hangman's noose?
They buried them deep, but they wouldn't lie still, For cats and witches are hard to kill; They swore they shouldn't and wouldn't die,-- Books said they did, but they lie! they lie!
--A couple of hundred years, or so, They had knocked about in the world below, When an Ess.e.x Deacon dropped in to call, And a homesick feeling seized them all; For he came from a place they knew full well, And many a tale he had to tell.
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They long to visit the haunts of men, To see the old dwellings they knew again, And ride on their broomsticks all around Their wide domain of unhallowed ground.
In Ess.e.x county there's many a roof Well known to him of the cloven hoof; The small square windows are full in view Which the midnight hags went sailing through,
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