BAR-GEE
BAR-GEE
I AM only a horse but if men could understand all the joy of being a thoroughbred with a record of 1:21, they would not say so pityingly that horses have almost human intelligence, for in possessing horse sense we have a gift that is just as great.
The first years of my colthood were spent under a trainer’s eye. As the months passed, he developed in my growing limbs the speed that was my birthright. Coming as I do from a long line of aristocrats, my name was entered early for the Great American Derby. When that day came, my heart was so full of the spirit of the race, I surprised myself as well as my trainers. Then followed three years of a hard professional career, all that time being spent on the flat and on the steeplechase track. I traveled from city to city, making and breaking records, until my health failed, and I was sold to a kindly gentleman who rode me in the city parks. It was humiliating at times to have to run with the ordinary park hacks one meets on the bridle paths; but for my master’s sake, for my master was always good to me, I would hold back and try to make it “sporty” coming in at the finish.
One day my feet fairly danced with joy, for again I was to be trained for a real race to be held at one of the country clubs. My trainer and I would go to the parks early, before the police were on duty, for they didn’t seem to know the difference between a sporty run and a flighty-headed runaway. My legs were bandaged to keep them in condition under the extraordinary work and strain, and as I looked back over my flanks, they seemed daily to grow in muscle and shapeliness with the vigorous exercise. Each muscle and nerve quivered, anxious to show what it was capable of doing.
At last the long looked for day came. The grand stand was full of people, and as my master patted my neck and smoothed down my slender legs, picking up each hoof to look into it for trouble, he whispered into my ear, “Good luck, Bar-Gee, old boy! Go in and win, and show them what a good horse can do.”
I found it hard to keep all four feet on the ground at once, my heart was so light and happy, and I fear I gave some little trouble at the post, the old plugs were so slow in coming up. My racing blood urged me to be off. Every drop of it was dancing and crying for the sport. At last the starting wire flew up, and we were off. I stretched myself very close to the ground, making no false moves, and the earth danced away under my flying feet. My jockey clung to the snaffle and never used the whip. I could hear the other horses coming after me, breathing and snorting, their jockeys all using whips and spurs. By this time I had but one thought—to keep in the lead and to win, win, win! As we turned the half-mile post my jockey put his whip on me. This angered me, for I was only waiting to come a little nearer the field so the finish would be more brilliant before my master. I knew he had sugar in his pocket. We pulled into the home stretch, and my hoofs fairly sang on the turf. The people in the grand stand jumped to their feet and cheered as I came under the wire just twenty feet ahead of second. It took me a quarter of a mile beyond that to stop, for once my instinct for racing was aroused, the blood of my ancestors asserted itself, and I hated knowing it was all over.