University of Virginia Library

A FUNERAL AND A WEDDING

I sat with John Harper at the left of the grand stand, and
watched every motion of the old man's face. Longfellow had
run around the track twice immediately preceding the race, a
proceeding unaccountable to many here to-day.

“Why did you do it?” I asked Mr. Harper.

“Because I thought old Long was a little tight, and I wanted
to see if he would sweat well.”

As the horses started, I asked John Harper how Longfellow
was prepared for the race.

“Very well,” he replied, “only a leetle too high.”

I now give you a faithful photograph of the scene:

The horses are now on the second mile, I sit by John Harper.
“How is he going?” I ask old John, who sits with his cold gray
eyes sternly fixed on the race.

“He is doing very well—only the boy is riding him a leetle too
fast—faster than I ordered him—but he's a good boy, and I
reckon he knows what he is about.

The horses now passed the grand stand the second time.

“How is he going now?” I asked.

“The boy is making him go a little furder out than I ordered
him, but I reckon Longfellow has got the race.” The old man

looks on coolly, but with a dreadful interest which seems to take
away his breath.

The horses now enter upon the third mile. Longfellow begins
to throw out his tail.

“I guess the boy is too weak for him,” says old John, quietly,
his eyes still fixed on the race in dreadful silence.

The horses now pass the grand stand a third time almost neck
and neck.

John Harper looked happy and secure.

“You are very quiet for one who has $40,000 depending on
the race,” I remark.

The old man makes no reply. He never spoke after this.

Longfellow seemed to let down his head as if exhausted,
caught the bit, and it was all up in a moment.

“What is the matter, Uncle John?”

Not a word in reply; but the old man's eyes seemed to be
wandering, and his mind had gone away from the grand stand—
to his horse.

Helmbold now made a sudden spurt, took the lead, and held
it like grim death. John Harper looked like one at the death-bed
of a friend—hope, sickly hope, beamed in his countenance,
and that was all. Not a word escaped his lips. He saw his love
his pride, his idol, break down before his eyes, while ten thousand
demoniac voices shouted and made bedlam of the grand
stand.

“Longfellow has been drugged,” growled Col. Bridgeland to
old John. John Harper made no reply. His heart seemed
broken, and “he's gone” were the only words he uttered after
the third mile.

As he muttered these words I felt a feeling—a physchologic feeling
of pity for the good old man. Demoniac shouts went up
from ten thousand hoarse throats, but old John heard them not.

He saw nothing but his panting horse, heard nothing but his
hard breathing. I got up and walked down to the track with
him. He walked up by Longfellow, his defeated pride, his dead

hope, but was silent as the grave. The grand old horse stood
trembling, with his head down, exhausted. The last mile was
too much for him. Enquirer Joe ran into the weigh house, doffed
his suit, and went mournfully back to the stable with his horse
and his gray-haired owner.

To me the race was like a funeral and a wedding. While the
old man's heart was breaking, ten thousand people were wild
with joy. I could not rejoice. I only saw, and hoped, and suffered
with the white-haired old man by my side.