’Tis enough to make me run and hide my face.
When we parted last December,
Oh, she vowed she’d share my lot;
And to me her silence is a puzzle quite:
Though I happen to remember—
And ’tis strange that I forgot—
That my darling ducky never learned to write!
—George M. Vickers.
Ben-Hur’s Chariot Race.
The trumpet sounded short and sharp. The starters, one for each chariot, leaped down, ready to give assistance if any of the fours proved unmanageable. Again the trumpet blew, and simultaneously the gate-keepers threw[765] the stalls open. Forth from each stall, like missiles in a volley from so many great guns, rushed[766] the six contesting fours—the Corinthian’s, Messala’s, the Athenian’s, the Byzantine’s, the Sidonian’s, and Ben-Hur’s—and the vast assemblage rose[767] and, leaping upon the benches, filled[768] the circus with yells and screams.