Wreaths of flowers were hung around my neck, and I was walked up and down in front of the judges and the grand stand. I wanted so to get to my master and talk it all over with him, with my nose in his loving hand. I was so glad I had won the big silver cup I even allowed his women folk to talk baby talk to me, which is, of course, foolish—and besides, I hadn’t forgotten the sugar.
During that autumn I was shipped down to my master’s estate in Virginia, where the horses are all trained for fox hunting and not for speed. I enjoyed a few runs, but the hunters do not know what this sport is; their game evidently is not to see how fast they can go or how high they can jump, but how close they can keep to the dogs without stepping on them. It always makes me angry to be held in, so I do not make good as a hunter. Moreover, I have developed a cough, which makes it hard for me to breathe, and being infectious, compels me to spend my days alone in an open field.
I frequently have friendly chats over the fence with the other horses, but it is unsafe to have us together. I must confess my heart is sad when my master rides by on his big hunter. I hate that horse, and if my heels could reach him, he would not put on such airs and lord it over me. Of course I am not jealous, for I know my master loves me, and I often hear him giving orders for my comfort; but I am never taken out now. My cough is growing worse, and I feel I am getting old.
One night there was great excitement because a drunken negro had stolen me and sold me for twelve dollars. Think of the indignity! My blue-blooded ancestors must have turned in their graves or stood on their hind legs with indignation if they knew it. I was taken many miles away and shut up in a lot surrounded by a five-rail fence. When I was left alone, I jumped the fence and started for home. The going was hard, as I was impatient to get home again, and my cough had made me feeble. I wanted so to stop and rest by the cool roadside where the grass looked fresh and green, but I did not dare, for I knew I should be missed. At last I saw the Blue Ridge Farm stables. How good they looked to me! I had just strength enough to whinny to my friends in the paddock as I trotted into the stable, tired, but happy and contented.
Now I am living on the best of the land, and as I rest under the big chestnut tree in the paddock, my thoughts run back to the days when my jockey slept in my stall to keep me safe from foul play. I see myself, blanketed, ready to appear before the judges, and impatiently waiting while my jockey is weighing in. The grand stand is gay with music and flags. The light saddle is tossed across my back. A race is before me. Ah! those were the happiest moments of my life.
The races are all run now—all but one, and that will be the run over to the Happy Hunting Ground. I hope when the last wire flies up, I shall be brave and full of hope, and go in as a thoroughbred should.
THE SOUL OF A VIOLIN
THE SOUL OF A VIOLIN