•i^ liXf.X 
 
 
 
 .v';ti', 
 
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 '/r 
 
Heart Throbs and \ 
 Hoof Beats 
 
 Poems of T'raci, Stable ajid Fi?'eside 
 
 By Walter Palmer 
 
 Cover by Rodney Thompson 
 From the Press of 
 
 HiLLIS-MuRGOTTEN Co., SaN JoSE, CaLIFORNI/ 
 
 1922 
 
^^:i'^'< 
 
 
 ^K^'^ 
 
 Copyrighted 1922, by Walter Palmer 
 
 ©CI.AG8a979 
 NOl/ -2 m2 
 
 '^•.;'^' 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 Toast — The Horse 9 
 
 Hearthstone Meditations 10 
 
 Unfailing Signs 14 
 
 The Hobles Sadie Wore 16 
 
 A Friend 27 
 
 Uhlan 28 
 
 Those Old High Wheels 30 
 
 E. F. Geers 33 
 
 That Democrat Wagon of Dad's... 35 
 
 Away 39 
 
 The Secretary Man 40 
 
 Reflections of a Rover 44 
 
 The Chestnut Horse and Joe 46 
 
 The Old-Time Fair 51 
 
 Charles E. Dean 52 
 
 Casey Jones 54 
 
 Back Home 57 
 
 Reveries 59 
 
 When She Was Here 63 
 
 The Road to Everywhere 65 
 
 The Picture on the Wall 66 
 
 How the Doctor Lost and Won 72 
 
 The Country Store 78 
 
 Budd Doole 82 
 
 McMahon's Boy 84 
 
 Twilight 88 
 
 The Old Homestead 89 
 
 The Old White Fire Team 92 
 
 A Real Optimist 96 
 
 The Blacksmith Shop 99 
 
 The Sport Worth While 102 
 
 Finis 106 
 
3 
 
 IN APPRECIATION 
 
 ^1 HE AUTHOF^^ wishes to express his 
 ■• gratitude to The Horseman, The 
 Horse Review, The Show Horse Chronicle 
 and the several gentlemen who have as- 
 sisted in securing the })ictures contained 
 herein. 
 
Cfe'.iCiPi 
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 Did vou ever, i.lear reader, really love a horse? Have 
 you L._v.ii one of those fortunate mortals who have lived 
 a portion of their lives out in the gorgeous freedom of 
 God's open country? Have you ever as a child confided 
 your joys and sorrows to a i)ony or poured out to some 
 equine friend, tried and true, the anguish of your soul ? 
 Have you ever looked into those great, limpid, hazel eyes 
 when all the world seemed against you and read therein 
 the promise to share your successes and reverses through 
 the sunshine and shadow of life? If so. then there has 
 come to you that supreme satisfaction that comes from 
 an intimate association with man's best friend, a satisfac- 
 tion which can not emanate elsewhere and which all the 
 mechanical things in Christendom can not produce. 
 
 I have come to look with compassion upon those un- 
 fortunate individuals into whose lives there has never 
 come the lasting influence of AN OLD ROAN MARE; 
 possibly she was as white as the drifting snows that hid 
 the hedge rows in winter ; mayhap she was as black as 
 the cawing- crows that voiced a vigorous protest at your 
 untimely intrusian ; i)erhance she was the color of your 
 own chub1)y hands in butter-nut time. Be that as it may, 
 a memory of her faithfulness and constancy has abided 
 with you on down through the years and prompted you to 
 purer motives and higher ideals. Undaunted by heat or 
 cold, she served you on festive occasions, and brought 
 succor and relief in the hour of your affliction. Through 
 the inky blackness of the night and against the fury of the 
 tempest, the old mare brought you home, wdiere warmth 
 and comfort and loved ones awaited your coming, and 
 where her deeds and the deeds of her progeny were an 
 oft-told tale. The ingenuity of man may devise other 
 methods of tilling the soil ; uncertain devices will emanci- 
 pate our animals from the drudgery of menial lal)or, but 
 time can not efiface the record or dim the achievements 
 of those sturdy, faithful steeds whose service so largely 
 aided and abetted the pioneers in the development of this 
 great country, and so to their memory and to the friends 
 of horses evervwhere, this book is respectfullv dedicated. 
 
 — W. B. P. 
 
Man's love of his horse is not a thing of yesterday. It 
 is age-old and has grown greater the further '•emoveu ne 
 has become from the dawn of time. As he emerged from 
 the silent day of savagery perfumed with the hidden 
 flowers of unknowing innocence, and began his long course 
 through the silver silence of the night, to his ultimate 
 estate of Man, always has he been accompanied by his 
 never-failing, never-faltering Horse. Side by side they 
 have come down the illimitable Corridors of Time and in 
 the company of his horse. Man has ever escaped the sheer 
 weight of unbearable loneliness. So the ties of comrade- 
 ship and the sense of security have become interwoven 
 into the deepest recesses of the very heart of mankind 
 and the Love of his Horse is as world-wide as are those 
 thoughts whose very sweetness yield proof that they were 
 born for Immortality. "The Idea of Immortality, that 
 like a sea has ebbed and flowed in the human heart, with 
 its countless waves of hope and fear beating against the 
 shores and rocks of time and fate, was not born of any 
 book, nor of any creed, nor of any religion. It was born 
 of Human Affection, and it will continue to ebb and flow 
 beneath the mists and clouds of doubt and darkness as 
 long as Love kisses the lips of Death." Human Affec- 
 tion! The cry of the hungry heart! The unutterable 
 yearning for that sympathy of the one kindred soul which 
 will really Know and Understand and Console! — THUS 
 THE HORSE ABIDES. 
 
 — H. J. KRUM in the Show Horse Chronicle. 
 
 \ 
 
 \J 
 
 .^ 
 
^ )\\ 
 
 THE HORSE 
 
 The Horse is the thing ; 
 
 You may have the thrills 
 
 That come with the gasoline, 
 
 You may have the spills 
 
 And the pace that kills 
 
 In your auto or flying machine, 
 
 For the flyer that flies 
 
 In the vaulted skies 
 
 Must come to earth if his engine dies, 
 
 But the fire that lies 
 
 In a horse's eyes 
 
 Is the spark that lives and intensifies, 
 
 So here's to the horse 
 
 —THE KING— 
 
 /% 
 
 Page nine 
 
JUST A BOY, A DOG, A TROTTER 
 
 HEARTHSTONE MEDITATIONS 
 
 When the colts are snug and cozy 
 
 From the chilHng Winter hlast, 
 And you're all alone and dozy 
 
 Just a-dreaming of the past. 
 Then the rudy glowing- embers 
 
 Fitful shadows paint for me 
 Scenes when life was light and happy 
 
 And my heart was fancy free ; 
 Just a boy, a dog, a trotter — • 
 
 Ah, Fd give my very all 
 Just to live those old days over 
 
 When I slept out in a stall. 
 
 You can have your golf and polo, 
 And your yatching, if you please, 
 
 Page ten 
 
I can tell you of a pastime 
 
 Worth a dozen such as these. 
 Get a trotter or a show horse 
 
 For there's naught on Earth com])ares 
 To the fun a fellow really has 
 
 Who does the glad Fall fairs, 
 Throw away the pepsin taljlets. 
 
 Smash the l)ottles one and all, 
 Just forget your i)ains and trouhles. 
 
 Get hack to Nature in a stall. 
 
 There's no orchestra a-playing, 
 
 There's no giddy caharet, 
 Just a colored groom a-strumming 
 
 On a banjo far away, 
 "Old Black Joe" and "Suwanee River" 
 
 Page eleven 
 
ii;:^:-Uf V 
 
 Sweet as from a linnet's throat 
 While your trotter stops his munching 
 
 So you needn't miss a note; 
 You may have your prima donnas, 
 
 For to me the best of all 
 Are the melodies of nature 
 
 That you hear out in a stall. 
 
 n 
 
 You can talk about your Biltmores 
 
 And your Blackstones and Savoys, 
 With their taxicabs and telephones 
 
 And bell-hops and their noise, 
 You can have your elevators 
 
 And your marble lobbies fine, 
 But I'll take a pair of blankets 
 
 And a big box stall for mine; 
 You won't need a call for breakfast, 
 
 There's no scheme you can propose 
 That will wake you half so surely 
 
 As a hungry, velvet nose. 
 
 No electric lights to puzzle 
 
 And no gas to kill you dead, 
 Just a good, old-fashioned lantern 
 
 From the rafters overhead. 
 But its sombre scintilations 
 
 Seem to beckon you to stray 
 To the waiting arms of Morpheus 
 
 When your trotter's "put away," 
 There's no ostermoor or feathers 
 
 That a landlord ever saw 
 That will give you half the comfort 
 
 Of a bunk out in the straw. 
 
 Page faelvt 
 
iMfJili-U ^' \J-J^iJ-ai/- 
 
 There's no costly lavatory, 
 
 There's no valet to be fed, 
 Just a bucket of cold water 
 
 And a rub-rag's all you need, 
 You'll find a broken mirror 
 
 On the boot-board over there 
 And a bit of comb provided 
 
 You've not parted with your hair, 
 There'll be no manicurist 
 
 And no barber within call. 
 Neither will you need a doctor 
 
 If you sleep out in a stall. 
 
 X 
 
 Oh ye weary men of millions 
 
 With your multitude of cares, 
 Don't you know the Silent Reaper 
 
 Creeps upon you unawares? 
 Get yourself a good game trotter. 
 
 One of those that always tries. 
 There's no nobler, truer comrade 
 
 Underneath the vaulted skies. 
 If you'd live long and be happy 
 
 From early Spring till Fall 
 Cut out care and cast your fortune 
 
 With a trotter in a stall. 
 
 Page i h i r t e tn 
 
The melancholy days are here 
 
 I know it in- the chill 
 That permeates the atmosphere 
 
 Uj) here upon the hill. 
 
 Tiie wind is sighing through the trees 
 The leaves are turning hrown. 
 
 But there's a surer sign than these, 
 llie city folks have moved to town. 
 
 Alas, it seems hut yesterday 
 
 Since they arrived upon the scene. 
 
 So fast the seasons fly away, 
 
 So fast the Summers come between. 
 
 Page y o u r I e e n 
 
4r' 
 
 ^. 
 
 Far from the city's madding strife" 
 Thc\- flidse this spot to settle down, 
 
 And 1 can't see to save my hfe 
 
 lust why our neighhors move to town. 
 
 For who would give the worth-while joys 
 That we accrue hei"e every day. 
 
 F'or all the city's smoke and noise 
 
 And all its gladsome, great, white wa}'. 
 
 Down liere we walk ahout serene 
 
 In perfect safety any time. 
 Up there they hit you on the l)ean 
 
 And rol) you of your only dime. 
 
 ^wn here a neighhor is a chaj) 
 ■^^^^ho every morning says Hello, 
 Up there you may not know mayhap 
 The man who rents the flat helow. 
 
 The rohin and the lark have flown. 
 
 The red sciuirrel's antics ape a clown, 
 And Winter's coming, he it known, 
 
 When citv folks jjo back to town. 
 
 ) 
 
 =^^^-^'<A^ 
 
 Page J i/l e ^ n 
 
THE HOBBLES SAPIE WORE 
 
 (Perhaps none of our great pacing mares were more 
 popular than was Citation 2. -01^4. The ease and grace 
 with which she wore her hol)bles, the contented manner 
 in which she trailed an opponent, and the cyclonic speed 
 with which she came at the finish are all impressed in- 
 dellibly upon the memory of the writer and assisted 
 largely in making "Sadie," as she was familiarly known, 
 a public idol.) 
 
 "Say, Kelly, you got any hobbles? 
 
 Why, what are you laughing at, 
 Do you think I can't drive a pacer 
 
 Because I am big and fat, 
 Do you think 'cause I use an auto 
 
 That I've laid down the reins 
 And lost all the bright red corpuscles 
 
 That raced in my boyhood veins? 
 Do you think 'cause I've stopped my drinking 
 
 And grown a l)it more staid 
 That I've forgotten the noblest horse 
 
 The good Lord ever made? 
 Yes, Kelly, I've got a pacer 
 
 But she breaks when I try to race 
 And I want a set of hobbles 
 
 To keep her on a pace, 
 She does not always need them 
 
 And then again I'll swear 
 To get her a set of hobbles 
 
 Like Old Sadie used to wear. 
 
 Page i i X i e e n 
 
n 
 
 \\)U imist reuieniher Sa'^' 
 
 Who turned full -^any inck, 
 }:ler real name was -Citation 
 
 And we called her driver Dick. 
 You saw the race, I'm certain, 
 
 And must recall the mare, 
 I can see her just as plainly 
 
 As she was standing there : 
 lirown and modest, not as handsome 
 
 As this younger mare of mine, 
 But with a wealth of something 
 
 That made her almost divine; 
 Say, my mare would look just like her 
 
 When she turned around to score, 
 If you'd sell me a set of hobhles 
 
 Just like Old Sadie wore. 
 
 "Did I buy her? No, I bred her; 
 Remember the old roan mare 
 That I drove when I was a-courting 
 
 And raced at the county fair? 
 Do you mind the year I rented 
 
 The farm on Coval creek. 
 The crops were most a failure 
 
 And the family had all been sick ; 
 I was mighty short of horses 
 
 But the old mare pulled me through 
 'Cause when the big ones faltered 
 
 She just did the work of two, 
 And when they puffed and wilted 
 
 She seemed to thrive instead, 
 A cross of Hal and Bashaw 
 
 On a dash of thorobred. 
 
 "My landlord, Old Man Skinner, 
 
 
 Page teventeen 
 
"A DAPPER MAN IN GRAY " 
 
 Wouldn't trust me for my i)lows 
 Till I gave him a chattel mortgage 
 
 On my horses and my cows. 
 And Kelly, nothing hurt me so in twenty years 
 
 ,\s the name of that old roan mare 
 When I saw it through the tears. 
 
 The note fell due in August 
 And we'd worked and saved and planned 
 
 Till on July twenty-second 
 \Ve had all the cash on hand. 
 
 How 1 recall the morning 
 For my wife had helped me start 
 
 And had placed the eggs and hutter 
 In the bottom of the cart. 
 
 The whole world seemed so happy 
 And my heart so light and free 
 
 Page eighteen 
 
X 
 
 As I thought ho\. •!, 
 
 Would surely envy ' 
 
 The thrush and lark and linnet 
 Seemed to revel in their song 
 
 And I hummed forgotten hallads 
 As the old mare jogged along. 
 
 "Well, when T got to the city 
 
 1 had a drink or tw<j. 
 And I soon forgot old Skinner 
 
 And the errands I had to do. 
 1 wandered about from l)ar to bar 
 
 Till a l)and began to play 
 And then I remembered the races 
 
 Were going on that day. 
 I hadn't seen a race in years 
 
 But it sort o' brought me back 
 And I dropped in l)ehin(l the music 
 
 y\nd followed it to the track. 
 The free-for-all was scoring 
 
 And a dapper man in gray 
 Was writing on a blackboard 
 
 And then rubbing it away ; 
 Talk about your school ma'ams 
 
 That are handy with the chalk, 
 lie was surely some professor. 
 
 He could write and ml) and talk. 
 A sporty looking fellow 
 
 Who owned some racing stock 
 Informed me he could write a book 
 
 And that his name was Jock, 
 He seemed to figure a little 
 
 iVnd then he'd turn and say, 
 
 Page n I n g t e r n 
 
We'' co: "^n, boys, and pick 'em out 
 Before thc\ -^et away. 
 
 "I had always kept my wallet 
 
 Tied up with a buckskin string- 
 In my right hand trousers pocket 
 
 And had held on to the thing 
 With a vice-like grasp to shield it 
 
 From the semblance of all harm, 
 When my si)orty friend politely 
 
 Touched me on the other arm ; 
 You see, he said, my brother owns 
 
 The brown mare with the straps 
 And another brother drives her, 
 
 And I thought that you perhaps 
 Would like to make a little money, 
 
 For it's fixed for her to win, 
 Those hobbled I)ir(ls will help her, 
 
 She'll simply ramble in ; 
 Better get down fifty plunkers 
 
 'Fore my brother bets his wads, 
 You'll never get another chance. 
 
 He'll surely change the odds. 
 Something seemed to tell me, Kelly, 
 
 That the kid was on the square, 
 So I peeled off fifty dollars 
 
 And bet it on the mare, 
 And as I passed it up to Jock, 
 
 'Straight or place,' was all he said. 
 And I answered, I want to bet it 
 
 That Sadie comes ahead. 
 JMy name's Joe, but he thought he knew me. 
 
 For he said with half a sneer, 
 
 =^. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Page I w e n lii 
 

 Si, I thought you wasn't .. -t. 
 
 But I'm mighty gla-' you're here, 
 Then he handed me out a Httle check, 
 
 I rememher it just as well, 
 'Cause 'twas Hke you get for your coat and hat 
 
 When you stop at a h\g hotel. 
 Mendota Cluh, it said at the top 
 
 And heneath with a pencil hlue. 
 His hired man had written 
 
 Citation — Ten to Two. 
 
 "They're off, and the murmuring crowd 
 stilled 
 
 As a chestnut flew to the rail, 
 And the hopes of Sadie's friends were chilled 
 
 As she was seen to trail ; 
 Past the quarter and round the turn 
 
 The flying pacers come, 
 Their hoofheats echoing on the air 
 
 Like the roll of a muffled drum ; 
 Nearer and nearer, step hy step. 
 
 Was there ever such a scene. 
 The hlack coat leading hy a length 
 
 The driver dressed in green ; 
 Grim and determined are the men 
 
 As Sphinx-like they sit and ride. 
 Awaiting the finish they know full well 
 
 Will be won or lost by a stride ; 
 Through the spell-bound crowd 
 
 Past the half in three 
 Like spectres grim they stole, 
 
 And round the turn, and up the stretch 
 And past the three-quarter pole, 
 
 Page I w e n I V - ti 
 
And or " Hie turn where the staliles ".'.i, 
 Where the grot ns sit on the r?il, 
 
 And still the li.. -tnut raced in front 
 With the ])rown mare on her trail, 
 
 I turned away in deep despair 
 As I thought of old Skinner's note, 
 
 And somehow a mist seemed to fill the air 
 And a lump seemed to come in my throat. 
 
 But hark — a roar like the surging sea 
 y\rose from the crowded stand. 
 
 'Twas the sweetest music I exer heard 
 And I've listened to Sousa's hand; 
 
 Through the frantic crowd I caught a glimpse 
 With an eager anxious eye. 
 
 Of a flash of green and a dash of gold 
 As Dick i)ulled out to try. 
 
 'Say, Kelly, you'\'e seen a ral)l)it dart 
 
 With its ears flat on its l)ack. 
 When life hung in the Ijalance 
 
 With the hounds upon its track ; 
 You've seen a turkey huzzard 
 
 Seem to stand still in the sky. 
 And then swoop down on your chickens 
 
 With no trusty shot gun nigh. 
 You've seen a graceful sail hoat 
 
 Helpless like with empty sail. 
 And you've seen it scudding homeward 
 
 When it felt the welcome gale. 
 Well, I don't know how it hai)pened. 
 
 But I always will declare. 
 He picked her up and placed her 
 
 Beside the other mare. 
 
 i-O' 
 
 Page I w e n I y - 1 w 
 
^^st the flag man, 
 
 l"a.-,L the draw gate, 
 On into the human lan^ 
 
 They were racing as two pacers 
 Ne'er will race that track again, 
 
 Each driver with the cunning 
 That an artist can command 
 
 Was working like a demon 
 With a voice and whip and hand. 
 
 And Richard, leaning over, 
 Witli determined voice and clear 
 
 Was shouting, Sadie, Sadie, Sadie, 
 In her ear. 
 
 "The crowd was fairly frantic, 
 
 Every man was on his feet yelling madly 
 Though no one was sure 
 
 Which mare had won the heat, 
 But I heard the judges whisper 
 
 That the hobbled mare was tirst. 
 And I suddenly decided to liquiate my thirst. 
 
 Jock didn't seem to be quite so glad 
 That I came to town that day, 
 
 But he said as he counted out the roll, 
 'Welcome as the flowers in May ;' 
 
 He's a mighty jolly fellow 
 And I know he meant it, too, 
 
 When he said, *Si, come tomorrow, 
 I'll save something good for you. 
 
 "Well, old Skinner got his money 
 And perhaps it saved his life. 
 But I took about three hundred home 
 And gave it ot my wife. 
 
 Page t-wtnlii-thtet 
 
/ 
 
 I (i not intend to tell her 
 
 But next dcy '^^ -s, says she, 
 
 'Joe, there's one vV _ knocty problem 
 
 That you must explain to me. 
 You have always been respected. 
 
 Have your senses taken flight, 
 Who is this Sadie, Sadie, 
 
 That you talk about all night?' 
 She had me in a pocket 
 
 And so I sat right down 
 And told her all that happened 
 
 The day I went to town. 
 And we sort o' courted over 
 
 And decided then and there 
 To raise another Sadie 
 
 From the old roan mare ; 
 And we've got her, she's a pippin. 
 
 Just as fat and smooth and round. 
 And I've broken her to harness 
 
 And she's absolutely sound. 
 
 'But times have changed ; 
 
 I bought the land old Skinner had 
 And annexed another eighty 
 
 That I purchased from my Dad; 
 We have got a brand new auto, 
 
 Just as slick as slick can be, 
 But I wouldn't give that filly 
 
 For all of them I ever see. 
 It's got a clock upon it 
 
 All fixed up for style and show 
 That tells you just how far you've been 
 
 And where you want to go, 
 
 V 
 
 Page twenty-four 
 
" WHERE THE BLOSSOMS DRIFT IN MAY " 
 
 There is only one more contraption 
 
 They could add to the con-sarned thing. 
 That would tell me how much it was going to 
 cost 
 
 And what it would finally bring. 
 I've worked a piece of highway, 
 
 Till it's smooth and flat and straight, 
 Just a half a mile from the big white elm 
 
 To the maple at the gate, 
 And, Kelly, you ought to see them step, 
 
 That filly and that machine ; 
 It brings me a vision of by-gone days 
 
 And two coats of black and green. 
 
 "The old roan mare has left us 
 
 And we tearfully laid her away 
 Out in the apple orchard 
 
 Where the blossoms drift in May. 
 
 Page lui t n t u -f i t 
 
summer evening?- 
 
 And o' 
 
 VVe stroll rhere. nie and ni' 
 And thank the*6ri. ' fe^'od gifts 
 
 For the better things of life. 
 Some people think religion 
 
 Is all a sort o' fudge, 
 But somehow it brings us nearer 
 
 To the (ireat Presiding Judge. 
 
 'Yes, Kelly, I'm starting the filly 
 
 Next week at the County Fair, 
 My friends will be in the grandstand 
 
 And I want you to be there ; 
 I hardly think she'll make a break 
 
 But I want to be sure and win 
 With just a little more room for mine, 
 
 No more of that rambling in ; 
 So 1 came for a pair of Hobbles 
 
 And, Kelly, 1 implore. 
 Be sure and pick me out a set 
 
 Just like Old Sadie wore." 
 
 Page I H) e n I y - s i X 
 
A FRIEND 
 
 A friend is a felk)w who knows your faults, 
 
 Who sees all your ins and outs ; 
 A chap whose loyalty never halts, 
 
 And who never a moment doubts ; 
 A pal who's with you wdiere'er you go 
 
 From the start to the very end, 
 Who lends a hand when you stub your toe— 
 
 That's what I call a friend. 
 
 Page I Ti) en I y - s e V e n' 
 
Se*L 
 
 /f«»^/" 
 
 "UHLAN" 1:58 
 
 TO UHLAN 
 
 (Jh Kin<4- dethroned, within whose placed eyes 
 There lurks "The look of Eagles" as of old, 
 
 I wonder if you do not oft surmise 
 
 The place in human hearts you safely hold. 
 
 I wonder if you do not look askance 
 
 On many things that men and nations do, 
 
 You who have never missed a chance 
 
 To serve your master just the best you knew 
 
 I wonder if your honest heart rebels 
 At man's gross inhumanity to man ; 
 
 I wonder if your indignation swells, 
 
 Pray, answer me, ex-monarch, if you can. 
 
 Po f e twenlff. eight 
 
\'.'^r'" you not piqued when --' '■^Divide 
 
 The ti."' '>f your riva .ats were known? 
 
 Did you not lo 7; to niea j stride for stride 
 Ere you resigned tne glories of your throne? 
 
 A throne indeed, the sea you love 
 
 Will murmur melodies awhile you sleep 
 
 And purple mountains far above 
 Like sentries tall their vigils keep. 
 
 Your lines are cast in pleasant ways 
 And still your eyes confirm the truth, 
 
 You're longing for those yesterdays 
 And for an hour of speed and youth. 
 
 You long for Proctor's guiding hand, 
 You hark for Tanner's pleading voice. 
 
 You loved the plaudits of the stand. 
 Its tumult made your heart rejoice. 
 
 But you have nobly done your best. 
 Those flying feet have never swerved. 
 
 Let no regrets disturb your rest. 
 
 For Youth must always first be served. 
 
 Alas our reign is all too brief, 
 
 A few short days of strength and might. 
 For Time steals on us like a thief, 
 
 And then — it's night. 
 
 Page I ai f n ly - n i n t 
 
THOSE OLD HIGH WHEELS 
 
 Just a quaint, old-fashioned sulky, 
 
 Standing in a dusty mow. 
 But its form grotesque and bulky 
 
 Charms my fancy even now. 
 And I halt my explorations 
 
 As this antique rig 1 scan 
 To approve the rude creation 
 
 Of some old-time artisan. 
 
 i 
 
 Timid pigeons coo and flutter 
 
 As my warning steps intrude 
 And the red-head on the gutter 
 
 Drums a noisy interlude ; 
 Full the ample mow and fragrant 
 
 With the scent of new mown hay, 
 So I find myself a vagrant 
 
 Dreaming of a by-gone day. 
 
 .=^^ 
 
 Page t h i r ly 
 
Musing (here 1)eneat' , . ^.cs 
 
 .''^''-lere the sunHglil: filters through, 
 How ' t.-u?i^ <Tfemory mingles 
 
 With the scenes that sulky knew. 
 With the horses that once drew it, 
 
 W ith the men it served so well, 
 And the list as now T view it 
 
 Seems to hold me in its spell. 
 
 There is (ioldsmith Maid and Ivarus, 
 
 And Maud S. and Billie Bair, 
 And Splan and Orrin Hickok, 
 
 ^\'as there ever such a pair? 
 There's St. Julian and Trinket, 
 
 Palo Alto and Sunol, 
 And a score of others answer 
 
 As my fancy calls the roll. 
 
 Then comes Woodruff, ]Mace and Murphy, 
 
 Household names in by-gone days. 
 Honest Charlie F"ord and Hopeful, 
 
 What a loyal pair of grays, 
 Dexter with his four white stockings, 
 
 Smuggler with his pounds of weight, 
 And with Charlie Marvin driving 
 
 Next comes jogging through the gate. 
 
 Lucy, George M. Patchen, Tackey, 
 
 Red Cloud drawing Johnnie Wade, 
 Now report to draw positions, 
 
 What a record each one made. 
 Arab, Maxie Cobb and Phallas, 
 
 Clingstone, too, and Jay Eye See 
 Are among the many others 
 
 That come scoring down to me. 
 
 \J 
 
 Page thirty -one 
 
Rowdy P'^'' and Mattie Hunter, 
 
 Sleepy loqi and Buffalo r^irl, 
 Johnston, Direct and HpI 'Pointer. 
 
 Names that keep my brain awhirl, 
 Tommy Lynn and Patsey Clinker, 
 
 Silver Tail and Daisy D. 
 Speers, Longfellow Whip and Williams, 
 
 Billie Ham and Lottie P. 
 
 Badger Girl, Cozette, Observer, 
 
 I was but a youngster then. 
 But I have a fond remembrance 
 
 Of old Big Soap and Lew Glenn, 
 Benson, Chandler, Grimes and Curry, 
 
 All have heard the final call. 
 And McHenry, cool and crafty. 
 
 Doubtless wizard of them all. 
 
 Gone, alas, those steeds and drivers, 
 
 But I know they'll reconvene 
 Up there by the placid waters, 
 
 In the pastures evergreen, 
 And Fm thankful for the vision 
 
 That is brought to me so oft 
 By that quaint old high wheel sulky 
 
 Standing in the stable loft. 
 
 Page t h i r I y - 1 TD o 
 
E. F. GEERS 
 
 Like some gnarled oak that throug-h the tempests lasts 
 
 And grows more sturdy with those trying blasts 
 So you have grown, undaunted, unapproachable, alone. 
 
 Temptation knocks unheeded at your door 
 And hurries on to fields that promise more; 
 
 Misfortune halts you, but no factor stays 
 The even tenor of your winning ways. 
 
 Rich in the things that make a man. 
 May you live on like that old oak apace 
 
 Far into and beyond the span 
 That marks our cradle and our resting place. 
 
 Oh, cunning hand and magic name, 
 
 U 
 
 Page ( hi riy -I h r ee 
 
\ 
 
 Oh, shades c old . " Pointer and the rest, 
 
 No pair has ever yet been known to lanie 
 That stir the same emotions in my breast, 
 
 And so when Spring time birds come flocking back 
 To haunts and homes they loved in other years 
 
 We come to loiter at the trotting track 
 And worship at the shrine of "Massa Geers." 
 
 May time and tide that do not wait 
 Deal kindly with us here below. 
 
 But may they please just hesitate, 
 ''Doggone it," Pop, we love you so. 
 
 -~^-^ '^^'' 
 
 tCn .J 
 
 i4L>^ 
 
 Page thirly-fouT 
 
b^ 
 
 A FRONT WHEEL IS MISSING 
 
 THAT DEMOCRAT WAGON OF DAD'S 
 
 I found it today half hidden away 
 
 In a tangle of brush and of weeds, 
 Not far from the spot where the children play 
 
 And the path to the old orchard leads ; 
 And oh, what a myriad of memories abide 
 
 Of those long-ago lassies and lads 
 That gathered around and just begged for a ride 
 
 In that democrat wagon of Dad's. 
 
 A front wheel is missing, the dashboard is bent. 
 
 The birds have built nests 'neath the seat ; 
 The leather upholstering is tattered and rent, 
 
 Its passing is almost complete ; 
 And yet as I view it, it lightens my load 
 
 And I'm back once again as a lad 
 When bronzed and barefooted I trudged down the 
 road 
 
 For a ride in that wagon with Dad, 
 
 f 
 
 Page ( f) i r I u - / 1 V e 
 
No varnish adorns u, the sun and the shine 
 
 Have vanquished the paint it once knew ; 
 An ehn hovers o'er it, a friendly old vine 
 
 Strives to hide its defects from my view ; 
 But I can't be denied, so I brush them aside 
 
 While I think of the fun that I've had 
 As I climbed to his side on that seat for a ride 
 
 In that Democrat wagon with Dad. 
 
 For years it was given the choicest abode 
 
 Till an auto appeared on the scene, 
 And then the old wagon was lost to the road 
 
 Crowded out by a gaudy machine ; 
 The tool house now claimed it and answered its needs 
 
 Till a tractor came puffing along. 
 And then it was left to repose in the weeds, 
 
 Lulled to sleep by the meadow lark's song. 
 
 How oft in the days that have taken to flight 
 
 Have I pictured those scenes o'er and o'er, 
 Of Father and Mother returning at night 
 
 And the goodies the old wagon bore ; 
 There were bushels of buckwheat and oysters and 
 things 
 
 That made a boy's heart superglad, 
 And so I rejoice that my memory clings 
 
 To that democrat wagon and Dad. 
 
 On Sunday it took us to worship and prayer 
 In the white meeting house on the hill, 
 
 Forgotten the sermons we listened to there 
 But the wagon remains with us still. 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^-O*^" 
 
 Page t h i 1 1]) ■ 3 i X 
 
THE WHITE MEETING HOUSE ON THE HILL 
 
 And then in the Autumn, the season's work o'er, 
 
 We drove to the fair every day. 
 And how I would tease Dad and clamor for more 
 
 If we raced just a bit on the way. 
 
 For Father contended a man wasn't bad 
 
 Just because he loved horses a lot ; 
 I've followed his pretext and so from a lad 
 
 I have worshipped a horse that could trot ; 
 I've a boy of my own that can drive a big car 
 
 But I've watched him and know it is true, 
 He don't get the pleasure, as fast as they are. 
 
 That his Dad and his Grandfather knew. 
 
 p4i g e thirlu-iioifl 
 
i i 
 
 And so as I view it my boyhood returns 
 
 And a mist sort o' comes to my eyes ; 
 I'll frankly confess that my heart fairly yearns 
 
 For those far-away days that I prize, 
 The neighbors, the schoolhouse, the village and all 
 
 For the country I loved as a lad. 
 But the happiest moments that I can recall 
 
 Were spent in that wagon with Had. 
 
 We are told that when life with its trouble and fuss 
 
 Shall end and our journey is o'er, 
 A palid old boatman is waiting for us 
 
 With a barque for a far-away shore, 
 Our finish is plain and we can not remain, 
 
 But I'd welcome the change and be glad, 
 If I could be sure I would nestle secure 
 
 In that Democrat W^igon with Had. 
 
 Page I hi riv- elgh 
 
"A SILENCE REIGNS UPON THE HILL" 
 
 AWAY 
 
 The shades are down across the way, 
 
 Unspotted lies the snow and still, 
 The giant oaks their vigils keep, 
 
 A silence reigns upon the hill ; 
 We look away across the lawn 
 
 Where merry parties once held sway, 
 But all the house is dark and lone. 
 
 The shades are down across the way. 
 
 We miss the children's noisy play, 
 
 They do not care the hill to climb 
 As once they did when they could stay 
 
 At Grandma's until supper time; 
 The wind seems sighing since they left, 
 
 The beagles have a mournful bey. 
 In fact, the whole blufY seems bereft. 
 
 The shades are down across the way. 
 
 Page I h i r I ij - n I n e 
 
THE OLD ELM AT ITS BACK 
 
 THE SECRETARY MAN 
 
 Dear Patron of the "Sport of Kings," 
 
 Did it ever occur to you 
 That a real live secretary 
 
 Has a few odd jobs to do? 
 Did you ever stop to ponder 
 
 How much time is all his own 
 From the day his dates are published 
 
 Till his deficit is shown? 
 Did you ever chance to chide him 
 
 'Cause he overlooked your name 
 For a complimentary ticket? 
 
 Don't you think he was to blame? 
 Did he give your groom the choicest stall 
 
 There was upon the track 
 
 Si/ 
 
 Page /orlV 
 
Close to the well and paddock 
 
 With the old elm at its back? 
 Did he have the "chamber" bedded? 
 
 Did he have a room for you 
 Just outside the track enclosure 
 
 That was cool and fresh and new? 
 Could he tell the name and breeding- 
 
 Of the horse in every stall ? 
 Did he know how fast the pacers 
 
 / 
 
 THE BOYS WHO ROLL THE BANDAGE 
 
 Would go in the free-for-all ? 
 Did the bookies get your money? 
 
 'Twas the secretary's fault, 
 He should have had the judges 
 
 Very promptly call a halt 
 When your ticket wasn't winning, 
 
 But of course he didn't know 
 When you bet your last two dollars 
 
 That your pacer couldn't show. 
 
 /^ 
 
 Page / r I u ■ n e 
 
Did he sell box four to Smithy? 
 
 Did he sell box three to Hall? 
 He should surely have known better 
 
 Why their wives don't speak at all. 
 Was he right there with the money 
 
 When your trotter's race was o'er? 
 Was his track hard enough for the sound ones 
 
 And soft enough for the sore? 
 Was your laundry ticket settled? 
 
 l^id you get an extra pass .■' 
 Did you win a heat in 'leven 
 
 And stay in the twenty class ? 
 Did he charge your entrance money? 
 
 Did he have a big boquet 
 Waiting for you at the station 
 
 On the day you shipped away? 
 Were the winners always happy 
 
 And the losers never sore? 
 Did he work full twenty hours 
 
 And more of the twenty-four? 
 If he did you've found the fellow 
 
 Who's entitled to the crown. 
 For he's picked up the burden 
 
 Where we all have thrown it down, 
 And I add my humble tribute 
 
 To that secretary's skill, 
 
 He's the man behind the cannon, 
 
 He's the flour in the mill ; 
 So I drink in silent homage 
 
 To the men who boost the game, 
 To the boys who roll the bandage 
 
 And the chap who rides to fame, 
 
 Page / o r I ])- 1 H) n 
 
s 
 
 To the l^reeiler .-ind the trainer 
 And to all the horseman clan, 
 
 But I drain my cup the deepest 
 To the secretary man. 
 
 ■'/ 
 
 W 
 
 Page / o r ty - 1 h r e'e 
 
A HAVEN OF REST WHEN THE WINTER WINDS BLOW 
 
 REFLECTIONS OF A ROVER 
 
 The old city bastile — How plain it appears 
 
 As I view it again through the mist of the years ; 
 Though rivers and mountains and plains intervene 
 
 I see it again as on memory's screen ; 
 How many a time in the days that have ])assed 
 
 It has sheltered us well from the pitiless blast, 
 And its old battered walls seemed a kingly abode 
 
 When its doors swung ajar for the knights of the 
 road. 
 I see them again, though unbidden I rove. 
 
 The fellows who camped 'round the old cannon 
 stove. 
 There was Paddy the lifer, whose merry old flute 
 
 Harbored music no artist would dare to refute ; 
 The bats on the rafters and rats on the floor 
 
 Were charmed by the strains of his Rory O'Moore, 
 
 Page forty .fo u r 
 
Anu when Paddy's overture eclioed away 
 
 A Thespian l)old rendered i)art of a play; 
 'Twas said by his friends that he promised in youth 
 
 To rival a Mansfield, or Barrett or Booth; 
 There was Tommy the toper, and Rattle Trap Jack, 
 
 The latter a title he gained on the track ; 
 There were men of all nations and men of all creeds 
 
 Who listened while others recounted their deeds ; 
 Just a care-free collection of innocent chaps 
 
 With the wanderlust habit prevailing perhaps. 
 And a thirst unrelentingly begging each morn 
 
 For the poison that lurks in the heart of the corn. 
 No costly contraptions the old bastile knew. 
 
 But a haven of rest when the \\'inter winds blew; 
 So I'm longing tonight to hit the back trail 
 
 And slumber again in the old city jail ; 
 It's welcome and warmth brought a vision of home 
 
 And I cannot forget it where ever I roam. 
 You may laugh, if you like, sir, but what is the use 
 
 To chide me for loving: the old calaboose. 
 
 Pagt /ptl^-/iO« 
 
JOE WAS TEN TO A DAY 
 
 THE CHESTNUT HORSE AND JOE 
 
 "Just a chestnut liorse." the neigh1)ors said. 
 
 As they saw him led away, 
 And they marveled much at the tears I shed 
 
 And the anguish I felt that day. 
 For that chestnut horse had a place in my heart 
 
 Where the angels I worship dwell, 
 And he seemed of my very life a part, 
 
 So this is the tale T tell. 
 
 (•) 
 
 Joe was ten to a day when he found the mare 
 With the new born foal at her side. 
 
 While with a proud and zealous air 
 
 She watched the youngster's ambling stride, 
 
 Page J rt u - i i X 
 
And Joe with nimble feet and bare 
 
 Dashed down the garden path in leaps 
 
 To bring me tidings of my favorite mare 
 And ask me if the colt was his "for keeps." 
 
 "Oh, Dad, it's a wonderful foal," he said, 
 
 "With eyes like the sky above, 
 And a queer white mark in its little head 
 
 Like the stars in the flag we love. 
 You'll let me name him now, of course. 
 
 Since you've given him all to me, 
 I'm going to make him a fighting horse 
 
 And call him My Liberty." 
 
 Ah, little soldier with sun-kissed hair, 
 
 Your boyhood dreams came true, 
 Those two gold stars in the window there 
 
 Mean the chestnut horse and you. 
 I helped Joe break him to drive and ride 
 
 And they won at the County Show, 
 While all the neighbors far and wide 
 
 Knew the chestnut horse and Joe. 
 
 The happy years that came between 
 
 Brought never a thought of fate 
 Till the lad at last had reached eighteen 
 
 And the horse was counted eight ; 
 And then the call to the colors came 
 
 And my boy was first to go, 
 But the chestnut horse never seemed the same 
 
 After saying good-bye to Joe. 
 
 Page forty-ieven 
 
A neighbor's boy was mustered in. 
 
 He had been Joe's dearest chum ; 
 They promised to stick through thick and thin 
 
 And to write if harm should come. 
 I hitched the chestnut up alone 
 
 And took the boys to the train, 
 .Somehow the skies had darker grown, 
 
 And from the clouds the tear drops came. 
 While the precious moments flew away 
 
 Joe whispered half in fun, 
 "Send J.iberty over to me some day 
 
 To help me catch a Hun. 
 
 "You know I'll love him where'er I am, 
 
 And the world is not so wide; 
 Just sell him some day to Uncle Sam 
 
 And we'll meet on the other side." 
 The train passed on with its clanging bell, 
 
 And the light of my life went too ; 
 It seemed, alas, like some awful knell 
 
 As it disappeared from view. 
 
 The season wearily wore away 
 
 With its hopes and doubts and fears, 
 Joe's face before me day by day 
 
 And his words in my aching ears. 
 So I sold the horse of my joy and pride 
 
 To a captain I met by chance. 
 To do his bit on the "Other Side" 
 
 With the khaki boys in France. 
 
 Page f o r t y - t i g h t 
 
Ah, little wonder the world stood still 
 
 And my tears in abundance fell 
 As the chestnut turned at the top of the hill 
 
 And whinnied a last farewell. 
 The letters that came were full of cheer 
 
 And one held a poppy bloom, 
 The end of the war seemed very near 
 
 And the boys would be with us soon. 
 
 The Yanks were hot on the Boche's track, 
 
 They were beating- the hated Huns; 
 And Pershing was pushing them steadily back 
 
 In s])ite of their gas and guns ; 
 And then — a letter from Joe's best friend, 
 
 "Sir, I promised to let you know, 
 They fought together to the end, 
 
 The chestnut horse and joe." 
 "Don't grieve," it said, "for the cause is won. 
 
 And they really have not died, 
 Their glorious lives have just begun — 
 
 They have met on the Other Side." 
 
 Just a chestnut horse and a boy so fair. 
 
 Two forms that M'ere stark and cold. 
 But the searchers paused in silent prayer 
 
 For the stars that had turned to gold. 
 And so each year as the Spring comes 'round, 
 
 I shall think of the poppies that blow 
 And nod their heads o'er the grassy mound 
 
 Of the Chestnut Horse and Joe. 
 
 Page forty. nine 
 
.^BSStiraw*;; 
 
 A HAND SHAKE AND HOW DO YOU DO 
 
 THE OLD-TIME FAIR 
 
 Oh Autumn, bring me back the days 
 
 I dreamed the dreams of a boy. 
 Before I had learned the world and its ways 
 
 And life was one round of joy ; 
 Bring me a vision of old-time friends, 
 
 A hand shake and How-do-ye-do, 
 One hour now could make amends 
 
 For the pain of a whole life through ; 
 Bring me those moments free from care 
 
 And the patter of feet at the score; 
 Bring me one day of the old-time fair, 
 
 I will never ask for more; 
 
 Page fifty 
 
Bring me a tune from the old-time band, 
 
 A glimpse of the old-time course, 
 Bring the applause of the crowded stand 
 
 As it cheers for the winning horse; 
 Bring me the chicken dinners rare, 
 
 Bring all of these, I say; 
 Revive, O Autumn, your old-time fair, 
 
 And bring me one yesterday. 
 
 Page fiftu-one 
 
CHARLES E. DEAN 
 
 I would not count that he alone 
 
 Has won profound success 
 Because a monumental stone 
 
 Proclaims his mightiness ; 
 I would not call that fellow great 
 
 Because his lands are wide 
 And potentates from every state 
 
 Come flocking to his side ; 
 Though bonds may fill his ample vaults 
 
 And wealth be everywhere 
 I could not overlook his faults 
 
 If he had l)een unfair. 
 
 Page J i f t y - I w I 
 
But if he builds a little cot 
 
 With roses here and there, 
 If children come to bless his lot 
 
 With joy beyond compare. 
 If pets come trooping to his call, 
 
 If, by his ways serene, 
 Me leads a pacer from her stall 
 
 And makes of her a (jueen ; 
 If he has brought to this old sphere 
 
 A wealth of pleasure, I'll confess 
 He's learned the art of living here 
 
 And earned his title to success. 
 Then would I call him truly great 
 
 For surely he has more than wealth 
 Whose friends from sea to sea await 
 
 The anxious tidings of his health. 
 For lands and bonds and wealth take wings 
 
 But honest hands and cheery smile 
 We find are the essential things 
 
 That go to make this life worth while. 
 
 Page flflu-lh re 
 
CASEY JONES 
 
 (A true story in verse with apologies.) 
 
 Listen, my fellows, and you shall get 
 A tale of the ride of Splint Barnett. 
 
 'Twas the tenth of October in Nineteen 'leven 
 And few of us all this side of Heaven 
 
 Will witness a show like the one we saw 
 
 Take place on the banks of the raging Kaw. 
 
 The American Royal show was on 
 
 And from far and near the fans had come 
 To see Missouri, proud and great. 
 
 Win blues from every other state. 
 And all the poultry and sheep and swine. 
 
 The mule maligned and the loving kine 
 Had garnered the honor and glory too 
 
 That came from winning the Royal blue. 
 The shades of night closed o'er the scene 
 
 And found all tranquil and serene ; 
 But hark — the bugle calls, and lo, 
 
 The gate swings wide for the night horse show. 
 
 The building from door to dome is filled 
 
 But the surging crowd at last is stilled 
 And all the boxes seem to be 
 
 So filled with the flower of chivalry 
 That old-time Romans in their might 
 
 Would have envied the Royal on this night. 
 A gaited class is in the ring. 
 
 All trying for that subtle thing called fame 
 
 Page J if ty -fo u t 
 
To which we all aspire, 
 
 Who ever rise from out the mire. 
 And well they might be proud to win, 
 
 For every rider of renown 
 From Old Kentucky's rippling rills 
 
 To Old Missouri's Ozark hills 
 Has gathered there in K. C. town. 
 
 The cheers for each are long and loud 
 As they dash in splendor I)efore the crowtl, 
 
 But all are lost in a mighty roar 
 As a chestnut comes racking through the door, 
 
 And sitting astride his famous pet 
 Is the sphinx-like form of "Splint" Barnett. 
 
 They walked, and walked they all so fine 
 
 One scarcely could tell the best in line; 
 They trotted, and the Barnett mount 
 
 Just seemed to put them all to rout ; 
 They racked, and how "Splint's" horse could whiz! 
 
 It looked as though the blue was his ; 
 They cantered, and all but Barnett's steed 
 
 Responded promptly on either lead. 
 Line up. line up, and they did their best 
 
 To pose each horse for the final test. 
 "What horse is this with rack so fine," 
 
 Asked the judge of "vSplint" as they wheeled in 
 line, 
 "Why, why," he answered in accents bold, 
 
 "He's just a baby, a four-year-old. 
 Fact is, Mr. Judge, he's half-past three, 
 
 I knows, 'cause they raised him close to me. 
 Yes, Mr. Judge, he's oil in the can. 
 
 He's named for a famous railroad man; 
 
 Page jifiU-iiot 
 
He's not in a class with those other l:)ones, 
 
 This horse, Mr. Judge, is Casey Jones." 
 But "Sphnt" felt shaky in the knees 
 
 When the judge said, "Let him canter, please." 
 "Why, why, Mr. Judge, he cantered before. 
 
 You surely don't need to see him more ; 
 I lets him canter most every day, 
 
 You must have been looking the other way." 
 "Well, well," said the judge, "why all this fuss, 
 
 He's got to canter here, for us; 
 And if he don't, you know it's true 
 
 He hasn't a chance to win the blue." 
 
 So "Splint" leaned over the chestnut's neck 
 
 And promised him many a half a peck ; 
 He coaxed and threatened and whipped and spurred 
 
 But Casey racked on like a flying bird. 
 And when the judges waved him in 
 
 Our hero murnuuTd with some chagrin, 
 "Casey Jones, just half-past three. 
 
 You've had your last square meal with me; 
 No pesterin' houn' dog like you are 
 
 Can ever ride in my old freight car." 
 And John Hook whispered on his right, 
 
 " 'Splint,' his memory's mighty bad tonight." 
 And Cohen and Moores and Woods and Rass 
 
 Still chide him gently as they pass. 
 
 And so the name of Casey Jones 
 
 Has been saved from the list of the world's un- 
 knowns. 
 And horsemen each year as the equines show 
 
 Will recount his deeds in the twilight's glow. 
 And dream of the past as the story they tell 
 
 Of a horse who did all but canter well. 
 
 Page ////ii-j/'jt 
 
■a 
 
 BACK HOME 
 
 Back Home! Ah, wondrous words are those 
 
 That every weary wanderer knows, 
 For cast al)out where'er we may 
 
 We plan to go back home some day ; 
 Across the miles that intervene 
 
 The prairies seem a bit more green, 
 The skies still seem a bit more blue 
 
 And old-time friends a bit more true 
 Back Home. 
 
 Back home a chill is in the air. 
 
 But surely hearts are warmer there ; 
 The flowers that come where snowdrifts lie 
 
 Will be the sweeter bye-and-bye ; 
 The morn may be a trifle gray 
 
 But breezes blow the clouds away, 
 And sunshine will come smiling through 
 
 As if to help to welcoiue you 
 Back Home. 
 
 Page j i Ifu -seven 
 
Back home I hope the neighbors say 
 
 They miss me since I've been away; 
 There's many that can take my place 
 
 And fill it with a kindlier grace; 
 There's many that can do my tasks, 
 
 And yet I hope somebody asks 
 Of someone that they chance to see 
 
 Just when they are expecting me 
 Back Home. 
 
 Back Home — but one must go away 
 
 To grasp the thoughts those words convey, 
 For when you wander 'round the land 
 
 You long to grasp an old friend's hand; 
 You long to see that old-time smile, 
 Awaiting for him all the while, 
 To say, in that familiar voice, 
 
 "Old Pal, your friends will all rejoice 
 That vou're Back Home." 
 
 Page / i/lv-e i g h 
 
REVERIES 
 
 (In California) 
 
 llie ])apers say it's snowint^- 
 
 I'ar across the (ii'eat Divide, 
 And I feel 1 should he .U'oiiii; 
 
 1 lack to take one more sleii^h ride ; 
 Sun and flowers all together 
 
 I'll agree are mighty hue, 
 But 1 miss the Winter weather 
 
 That helongs to Christmas time. 
 
 There seems a l)it of friction 
 
 Twixt this date and nature's laws, 
 And it's difficult to picture 
 
 Summer things with Santa Claus ; 
 I opine it's more in keeping 
 
 When he comes the same old way. 
 With his hells and antlered reindeer 
 
 And the same old battered sleigh. 
 
 Of course they try to tell us 
 
 Santa has a limousine, 
 But 'twould spoil my Merry Christmas 
 
 If it smelled of gasoline; 
 And when his style is altered 
 
 It will multiply my joys 
 To see a pair of trotters 
 
 Distributing the toys. 
 
 Page /i/t}f-nine 
 
There was something sort o' bracing' 
 
 In the days I used to know, 
 .\nd it kept your blood a-racing 
 
 When 'twas twenty-six below ; 
 It was then we banked the stable 
 
 And thawed out the kitchen pump 
 While a thousand other duties 
 
 Kept us always on the jump. 
 
 I can picture now the kitchen 
 
 Where my Mother baked the cakes, 
 And stuffed the bags with sausage 
 
 Like no city butcher makes, 
 And when Dad came to breakfast 
 
 He would slap his hands and say, 
 "W^ell, it snowed a good ten inches. 
 
 We will use the bobs today." 
 
 Page s ix t u 
 
Wc would (ill the box up deeply 
 
 With a wealth of golden straw ; 
 A modern carriage heater 
 
 Was a thing" we never saw ; 
 But a pair of downy blankets 
 
 And a "InifTalo" or two 
 Afforded more real comfort 
 
 Than an auto ever knew. 
 
 Sometimes when the winds were blowing" 
 
 And the cold was most intense, 
 It just kept on a-snowing 
 
 J ill 'twas higher than the fence; 
 We'd cross the fields and shovel 
 
 Until we reached the town, 
 But oh, I loved the Winter 
 
 When we got the bobsleds down. 
 
 Strange they always took me shopj^ng 
 
 Until Christmas time was near. 
 Then they held wderd consultations 
 
 Meant for no small boy to hear. 
 And I noticed one large closet 
 
 Where I always played before 
 Was kept securely fastened 
 
 And no key was in the door. 
 
 And then on Christmas evening, 
 When the church w^as all aglow% 
 
 And a million tiny diamonds 
 Seemed to sparkle in the snow, 
 
 Page si X (9 -0 ne 
 
All the niyster}' was ended, 
 For the gifts upon the tree 
 
 ^Vere the contents of that closet 
 That the bobsled brouc^ht to me. 
 
 Dear old bobsled, staunch and sturdy, 
 
 Helpmeet of the pioneers. 
 Memory like a sacred halo 
 
 Hovers o'er you through the years ; 
 Some day when the snow is falling 
 
 Thick on village church and store, 
 Hope I hear some l)oy's dad calling, 
 
 "Get the bobsleds down" once more. 
 
 Page t ix t u - Im 
 
WHEN SHE WAS HERE 
 
 When she was here, the one I loved and lost, 
 Joy reigned supreme, I counted not the cost ; 
 The happy years that sped away 
 Were as but weeks. 
 The weeks as but a day. 
 The house that once her presence filled 
 Re-echoes not the voice that's stilled ; 
 Her sacred room when I intrude 
 But greets me with its solitude ; 
 I worship for her own dear sake 
 The homey things she used to make 
 When she was here. 
 
 When she was here no favor I could ask 
 Would seem to her in any way a task ; 
 A word, a smile, a fond caress 
 A\'^ould prompt me to a new success ; 
 The flowers that she loved and reared 
 Have for the moment disappeared 
 But to return each Spring to grace 
 The verdure of her resting place ; 
 The birds will nest where oft before 
 She watched them from the open door, 
 While half expectant in his stall 
 A trotter listens for her call, 
 And pets still wistfully await 
 The step they welcomed at the gate 
 When she was here. 
 
 Page s i X I y - I h r e c 
 
AVhen she was here the magic of her hand 
 Was something I could never understand. 
 The touch that soothed my aching brow 
 I'll feel no more, and yet somehow 
 There shines about me all the while 
 The radiance of that loved one's smile. 
 I can not see her but I feel 
 Her queenly presence as I kneel 
 And thank the gracious Lord divine 
 For that dear helpmate that was mine ; 
 And so with His aid I will be 
 The man that she would make of me 
 If she were here. 
 
 W 11 
 
 Page s i X t u .f o u r 
 
THE ROAD TO EVERYWHERE 
 
 oil little brown road that winds away 
 
 And is lost to sight in the twilight gray, 
 
 Just where would you guide my steps and why, 
 
 If I your dusty trail should try? 
 
 If I should impose my trust in you 
 
 Would you take me to haunts that my childhood knew 
 
 Or would you guide me safe and well 
 
 To that distant land where the loved ones dwell? 
 
 Pray, tell me more of your route and fare. 
 
 Oh little brown road to everywhere. 
 
 Oh little brown road would you guide my feet 
 
 To the land wdiere the sky and the mountains meet, 
 
 Or would you bring me safe and fast 
 
 To the fields of grain and the prairies vast ; 
 
 Perhaps your path leads to the shore 
 
 Where your trail is lost in the billow's roar, 
 
 But whether it's ocean or mountain or plain, 
 
 I beg you to take me home again. 
 
 For all of the wealth of the world is there, 
 
 Oh little brown road to everywhere. 
 
 VJ 
 
 Page s i X t}/ ■/ IV t 
 
t' 
 
 THE PICTURES ON THE WALL 
 
 I've a sacred little sanctum 
 
 Tn a room that's all unkept ; 
 There is dust upon the mantle 
 
 And the floor is (piite unswept. 
 But I lock myself at evening 
 
 In its solitude and hide 
 Where the walls are hung- with pictures 
 
 That to me are sanctified. 
 
 There I lose the cares that cluster 
 
 'Round the prol)lenis of the day, 
 As I tilt my chair to visit 
 
 With the friends so far away ; 
 And they seem to smile and beckon 
 
 As I greet them once again 
 For a reminiscent hour 
 
 In the silence of my den. 
 
 Saddles hang- in yonder corner. 
 
 Boots are standing- by the door, 
 Over there a cap and jacket 
 
 That I don't use any more ; 
 Cups and trophies on the table. 
 
 Whips and ribbons, bits and shoes. 
 And a funny old-time muzzle 
 
 That the trainer now taboos. 
 
 Page s i X I y - 3 i X 
 
Page tlxlu -Seven 
 
There's a host of old-time faces 
 
 Beaming over famous steeds, 
 While the ever ready Year Book 
 
 Tells the story of their deeds ; 
 But tonight a dozen new ones 
 
 Greet me when my work is done, 
 'Tis the Calendar of Chanii)ions 
 
 For Nineteen Twenty-one. 
 
 Peter Manning, King of Trotters, 
 
 Monarch of the tribe alone, 
 I can almost hear the footsteps 
 
 That have borne you to the throne; 
 But I turn the pages over 
 
 And I wonder if you'll reign 
 When another year is ended 
 
 And my pictures come again. 
 
 How do ordinary mortals 
 
 Look to you from up above, 
 Fleet, determined, flying trotter, 
 
 Product of the state I love. 
 Fame is all too transitory 
 
 As is glory and renown, 
 Be ye watchful else your master 
 
 Guides another to the crown. 
 
 Then a striking picture greets me 
 
 As I turn the pages o'er 
 Of another Murphy trotter 
 
 That is knockino- at the door ; 
 
 Page s i X I y e i g h I 
 
Page i I X I u - n i fi e 
 
He stands at marked attention 
 And the thing at which he stares 
 
 Away off in the distance 
 
 Is the crown that Alanning; wears. 
 
 \ 
 
 There is not a man among us 
 
 If we'd all admit the truth, 
 But would turn the clock's hands backward 
 
 To the joyous days of youth ; 
 Silently we pass the milestones 
 
 And although we squirm and writhe 
 We can't escape the notice 
 
 Of the "Old Man with the Scythe." 
 
 Thus I marvel, gentle reader. 
 
 As I turn another page 
 To Ed Allen and his pacer 
 
 Bettered like the wine by age. 
 Ponce de Leon's famous fountain 
 
 With its praises widely sung 
 Cannot equal Indiana 
 
 When it comes to keeping young. 
 
 I would camp in Cambridge City 
 
 If the Scythe Man would agree 
 To pass me by unnoticed 
 
 Just as he has Single G. 
 Yes, I'd take my den and pictures 
 
 To that charming Hoosier spot 
 If old age would overlook me 
 
 Like the Horse that time forgot. 
 
 Page seventy 
 
Then I spend a happy hour 
 
 With McDonald, Cox and Ray, 
 Say Hello to Sandy Taylor, 
 
 Hear what Richard has to say ; 
 Have a chat with old friend Erwin, 
 
 Look at Chase Dean's flying steed, 
 And I find another evening 
 
 Has passed pleasantly indeed. 
 
 All the family have retired, 
 
 On the hearth the eml^ers glow, 
 As I sit alone and visit 
 
 With the "Boys" I used to know ; 
 And I find unbounded comfort 
 
 When the dusk of evening falls, 
 Just to watch the friends and horses 
 
 In the pictures on the walls. 
 
 Page ievenl]/-one 
 
/■ 
 
 WHERE THEY STEP TO BEAT THE BAND 
 
 HOW THE DOCTOR LOST AND WON 
 
 Have you ever heard the story 
 Of the man who lost but won? 
 
 Well, listen, fellow horsemen. 
 And I'll tell vou how 'twas done. 
 
 Back there in the prairie country 
 
 Where the corn grows thick and tall, 
 And where nearly every village 
 
 Has a county fair each Fall, 
 There's a nifty little race track 
 
 Where they step to beat the band. 
 And a judge who knows his business 
 
 Issues orders from the stand. 
 
 Page teventy-two 
 
Every year the horsey fellows 
 
 From the city by the lake, 
 Enter for a short vacation 
 
 And their business cares forsake; 
 One, a care-free, jolly dentist 
 
 Always makes the little town, 
 (iolden Boy he calls his pacer. 
 
 And his name is Doctor Brown. 
 
 Now among- the other drivers 
 
 Was a chap that we'll call Black, 
 Though the name was very different 
 
 That they called him on the track ; 
 And he also had a pacer. 
 
 Quite a fast one, rumor ran, 
 And below the Doctor's entry 
 
 Was Black's filly, Mary Ann. 
 
 Wednesday brought a crowd tremendous, 
 
 Hosts of every creed and kind. 
 Who intently viewed the pumpkins 
 
 With the races most in mind. 
 Seven pacers faced the starter 
 
 In the slow class of the day. 
 All were on their good behavior 
 
 And Vv^ere quickly on their way. 
 
 It was everybody's contest 
 
 Till they reached the distance stand 
 Then Black tapped the flying filly 
 
 And she quickly took connnand ; 
 
 Page 3event])-three 
 
Doctor Brown was riding easy, 
 
 Didn't seem to care a whit, 
 Golden Boy had finished second 
 
 And was plainly "on the hit." 
 
 Second heat and every starter 
 
 Finished in the self-same })lace, 
 Some declared it good as over, 
 
 Mary .Ann would win the race. 
 Then a dark horse called Idie Joker 
 
 Beat them in a furious drive, 
 Doctor Brown still "huggv riding" 
 
 While Black's mare was number tive. 
 
 Foiu-th heat, and the Doctor's entry 
 
 Quickly grabbed the inner rail. 
 Black, content to take it easy. 
 
 Coaxed his little mare to trail ; 
 Then the fifth and at its finish 
 
 Golden Boy had won two heats, 
 And the crowd now all excited 
 
 Stretched and settled in their seats. 
 
 Brown and Black who knew the rule-book 
 
 Thought no purse could compensate 
 For the mark they'd get l)y winning 
 
 So they planned "on being late.'' 
 They alone came out to finish 
 
 And it readily was seen 
 That each driver had decided 
 
 That he'd keep his pacer "green." 
 
 Page sevenlv/ouf 
 
Just three times they scored demurely 
 
 In a mild, half-hearted way; 
 When the judge addressed the drivers, 
 
 This is Avhat he had to say : 
 Mr. Black, you are a fellow 
 
 That I thought was on the square, 
 I'm not pleased, I can assure vou. 
 
 With the way you drive your mare ; 
 Now you take the Doctor's gelding 
 
 And I warn you. ?\Ir. Black, 
 It will be your last appearance 
 
 If you ever once kxjk back. 
 
 Doctor Brown, the judge continued, 
 
 You for years have graced this course, 
 And no one could quite convince me 
 
 That you'd really pull a horse ; 
 Yet you seem to fear the record 
 
 And I've hit upon a plan 
 
 That i)erhaps will save your bacon, 
 
 You will drive Black's Mary Ann ; 
 Now you land her here a winner 
 
 Or your patrons by the lake 
 Will find you in your office 
 
 When their teeth begin to ache. 
 
 "Do you think he really means it," 
 And Brown's face was ashy white 
 
 As he whispered to the Doctor 
 Who was turning on the right. 
 
 And the Doctor answered, "Does he? 
 Say, I've seen that judge before, 
 
 Page $« oe n li ■/ iv e 
 
I'm not lakiny any chances, 
 
 He'll do all he said and more." 
 
 Neck and neck they reached the quarter. 
 
 Whips were popping thick and fast, 
 On into the stretch they strugg-led, 
 
 Just a question which could last, 
 Past the half they still were i)acing 
 
 Like two demons hitched to pole. 
 While the drivers' frantic efforts 
 
 Proved each hoped to Avin the goal. 
 Side by side the pacers staggered, 
 
 Horse by horse and man l)y man. 
 But the Doctor won by inches 
 
 With the filly Mary Ann. 
 
 So the chaps that paid their money 
 
 For admission at the gate. 
 All agreed it was a corker. 
 
 That the race was simply great ; 
 Black's bay mare had won the battle. 
 
 Golden Boy had done his best. 
 And a sort of satisfaction 
 
 Hovered 'neath each driver's vest. 
 
 No reward is so enduring 
 
 As the sense of duty done, 
 It eclipses all the records 
 
 And the money that you've won ; 
 Doctor Brown still races horses 
 
 But he wins when e'er he can. 
 For he don't forget the lesson 
 
 That he learned with Marv Ann. 
 
 Page ie\>^n ty .ilx 
 
Down the street the judge still muses 
 
 In his spacious dry-goods store, 
 Where he issues daily orders 
 
 To a dozen clerks or more ; 
 And he still soliloquizes 
 
 That the rules are not too dense 
 To be strictly comprehended 
 
 1 1' they're mixed with common sense. 
 
 There's a moral to the story, 
 
 If you'd keep the horse game square, 
 
 Drive your trotter or your pacer 
 As the Doctor drove Black's mare. 
 
 Page « ( t)« n ^4/ - j c V « n 
 
THE COUNTRY STORE 
 
 Plainly mirrored in my memory 
 
 Are the scenes my boyhood knew, 
 And I brush away the teardrops 
 
 Just to get a better view 
 Of the churchyard and the schoolhouse 
 
 Which I picture o'er and o'er, 
 But I cherish most the glimpses 
 
 Of that old-time country store. 
 
 There it was we used to gather 
 
 When the chores were done at night, 
 
 Every topic from the weather 
 To the war was settled right. 
 
 Page tevenly.eighl 
 
:r-i0!5S-5 
 
 1\ 
 
 And the leaders of the nation 
 For a hundred years or more 
 
 Could ha\e i^ained some information 
 At that old-time country store. 
 
 On the left side were the groceries 
 
 And soap and tinware brig-ht. 
 \\'hile the calicoes and ginghams 
 
 ^\'ere i)iled up on the right ; 
 In the hack the sN-ruj) l)arre]s 
 
 And the apple cider kegs 
 Were flanked with jars of Initter 
 
 And baskets filled with eggs. 
 
 Uncle Sam had graced the structure 
 
 With his ])resence, so to speak, 
 And we used to mail a letter 
 
 Or receive one every week ; 
 But the evenings when the fellers 
 
 \\'as silent like and dumb. 
 Was \\hen the mail man whis])ere(l, 
 
 "Boys, the trottin' paper's come." 
 
 Oh the thrills that went a-kiting 
 
 Up my spine and down my back 
 As I listened to the tidings 
 
 ( )f the doings on the track. 
 Just how Nancy Hanks had triumphed, 
 
 How the "Pointer Hoss" had won, 
 Held us all in wrapt attention 
 
 A\'hen the trottin' papers come. 
 
''f!~^ 
 
 How .\xtel had broke the record 
 
 And how Allerton had raced, 
 Of the miles that John R. Gentry, 
 
 Robert J- and Patchen Paced, 
 National issues were forgotten 
 
 \\'hen young Online paced in four 
 And we read the trottin' papers 
 
 In the old-time country store. 
 
 Little wonder that Pm yearning 
 Though I roam in distant lands. 
 
 For I find my fancies turning- 
 Back to where the old store stands ; 
 
 Once again I tie my chestnut 
 To the gnawed and whittled rail. 
 
 Once again I ask the postman, 
 Please to bring me out my mail. 
 
 Once again I greet my schoolmates, 
 
 Once again I grope my way 
 Up the creaking wooden stairway 
 
 \Miere the old band used to play ; 
 All is quiet like and silent 
 
 And I lift the laggard latch 
 Just to catch a strain of nuisic 
 
 That no modern band can match. 
 
 Ah, the old days all have vanished, 
 I would be a stranger there, 
 
 I would find an automobile 
 
 Standing where I tied my mare. 
 
 Page eighty 
 
! 
 
 And I'd find the old store vacant 
 And the band dispersed and gone, 
 
 Leaving- like the birds of Summer, 
 Just a memory of their song. 
 
 Now I read al)out the racers 
 
 In a most o1)trusive \vav, 
 How the pacers beat two minutes 
 
 Almost any Autumn dav, 
 But I'd give my earthly holdings 
 
 Just to live those years once more 
 When we read the trottin' papers 
 
 In that quaint old country store. 
 
 Page e i g h I ]) - o n e 
 
BUOiJ DUBLE 
 
 REWARD 
 
 When a trotter is nearini>- the end of a race 
 
 And strugi^les along in the lead, 
 When his driver endeavors to quicken his pace 
 
 To win from some threatening steed, 
 I am sure there is nothing that prompts him to try 
 
 One last final effort to land 
 And capture the heat from the one rushing by 
 
 Like the frenzied a])plause from the stand. 
 
 Page e i g h I u - I T! o 
 
4 
 
 J 
 
 When an actor has cleverly mastered his lines 
 
 Though the play may be weary and long-, 
 The curtain is lifted a number of times 
 
 To appease the demands of the throng; 
 I am certain that when he at last ventures out 
 
 To make a short speech and appears 
 The greatest reward that is his, bevond (loul)t. 
 
 Is the ringing a])plause in his ears. 
 
 When a fellow has journeyed o'er life's rugged 
 track 
 
 Full eighty long laps to success, 
 There are few who can sav as they proudly look 
 back 
 
 That they've played the game fair, I'll confess. 
 For life's greatest winning is nf)t in the gold 
 
 Or the pleasures that riches ensnare. 
 Rut the sweetest reward, when the story is told, 
 
 Comes from knowing we pla\ed on the s(|uare. 
 
 I have just such a friend that I i)oint to with pride, 
 
 Who has toiled bravely on toward the goal, 
 He never has carried another man wide 
 
 Or crowded the chap at the pole ; 
 So here's my reward in a toast to his health. 
 
 Till the stars in the heavens grow dim, 
 The world needs not money to count as its wealth 
 
 But a million more fellows like him. 
 
 
 Page eighlu-lhret 
 
i 1 
 
 L__!f 
 
 ir-tOir^: 
 
 McMAHON'S BOY 
 
 Said "Zeekel" Smith to T.zra Moore 
 
 As they whittled away at the village store, 
 
 "I see that McMahon boy is back 
 
 That made a name upon the track 
 
 A-drivin' bosses fast and slow ; 
 
 They say he's made a lot of dough ; 
 
 I told the neighbors down my way 
 
 That lad would make his mark some dav. 
 
 And now that he has made plum good 
 
 I'm glad, because I knowed he would. 
 
 It hardly seems a dozen year 
 
 Since he was messin' 'round us here, 
 
 Playin' horse and catchin' frogs 
 
 And tyin' cans to all the dogs ; 
 
 I never yet could see just how 
 
 )Q /^ 
 
 ^=^ 
 
 w» 
 
 XC;^^ 
 
 Page eighlu-fouf 
 
He got that heifer in the mow 
 Of Jim Brown's barn, where seven men 
 Could scarcely get her down again, 
 Or how he got Si's chicken coop 
 ( )n top of ^\'ido\v Johnston's stoop. 
 Hut that was years and years ago. 
 And now I'm mighty glad to know- 
 That though he's traveled 'round a lot, 
 Through all the years he's not forgot. 
 He's changed a heaj) I must admit. 
 But then, time changes all a hit, 
 And still I'm sure I recognize 
 That same old twinkle in his eyes 
 That they had on that Autunm day 
 When he contrived to get away 
 From school (he'd put some pepper on the stove) 
 And teacher (she as was Miss (irove) 
 Says, Richard, you come here, says she, 
 And go and cut a switch for me. 
 And Richard went, for she'd begun to cough 
 And Dick allowed he might as well be off. 
 We didn't hear from him for quite a spell 
 And then news came that he was doin' well 
 A-drivin' Major Muscovite, 
 A horse that was first in many a fight. 
 That boy could always find a way 
 Of turning labor into play 
 And gettin' money thick and fast 
 Whether he was first or last. 
 Why, one day up there in De Moin 
 He must o' made a lot o' coin, 
 'Cause I went up to see him drive, 
 
 7 
 
 Page e i g hi u - 1 ("vi 
 
J^^ 
 
 =m^^;. 
 
 And goodness, gracious sakes alive, 
 
 How he performed, and how he tore 
 
 Away when they would turn to score. 
 
 The man who stood in the little shed 
 
 Would ring the bell and shake his head. 
 
 And then he'd draw a small red flag 
 
 And wave in the face of Richard's nag, 
 
 And shout as they jogged back up to score, 
 
 If you do it again you get fifty more. 
 
 My, he must a made a lot of dough, 
 
 'Cause they never once beat him there I know, 
 
 And the sun was gettin' mighty low 
 
 Before that feller shouted (io. 
 
 But when at last they got the word, 
 
 McMahon's boy flew like a bird 
 
 Around the turn, in front a dozen rods. 
 
 Too far to overcome the odds. 
 
 At that he barely won the heat. 
 
 And as he climbed down from his seat 
 
 He paused a moment to remark, 
 
 T like this racin' after dark, 
 
 It's strange how nuts from little acorns grow, 
 
 That starter never could say (io. 
 
 He'll do quite well to tend to things up there, 
 
 I'm being paid to w in with this old mare.' 
 
 And later on I heard him say 
 
 That he had foimd the only way 
 
 That he could ever win a race 
 
 From a bunch of steeds that he couldn't outj^ace 
 
 Was to commence a little while before 
 
 The rest of the horses left the score. 
 
 And I knew he hit upon that plan 
 
 Page e I s I' I U - S I X 
 
l-^J 
 
 cm 
 
 \ 
 
 Long years l)efore he l)ecame a man, 
 
 So that was the reason I never could catch 
 
 The boy who raided my melon patch. 
 
 If Richard had stayed around out here 
 
 He mig-ht have been an auctioneer, 
 
 Or mayl^e mayor of the town. 
 
 Or like as not we'd sent him down 
 
 To Washington to make our laws 
 
 That we don't favor much because 
 
 They're far too dry. and then I'll bet 
 
 We could have kept this old state wet, 
 
 And if it was, and we could have our brew 
 
 We'd make him President, that's what we'd do. 
 
 For a man who can drive a trotter straight 
 
 I would trust at the helm of the ship of state. 
 
 I'm glad McMahon's l)oy made good 
 
 Because I alwavs said he would. 
 
 ^ 
 
 fi a g e eighty. sevefl 
 
-^jLi^i^ari 
 
 TWILIGHT 
 
 My window faces toward the I'^ast 
 
 And as I wait 
 The twiHght steals unheeded o'er the bay, 
 
 While twinkling warnings from the Golden Gate 
 Beam out to warn the vessels on their way : 
 
 Beneath that window calla lillies bloom, 
 The California hills are fresh and green. 
 
 The scent of roses fills my room 
 And all about is tranquil and serene ; 
 
 The darkness deepens and the daylight ends, 
 The scene below enthralls me not the least, 
 
 I dream tonight of old-time friends, 
 My window faces toward the East. 
 
 Page eighlv-eighl 
 
THE OLD HOMESTEAD 
 
 You would hardly recognize it, 
 
 It seems so bleak and bare, 
 For the fine old trees are absent 
 
 That once guarded it with care, 
 And the peonies and snowballs 
 
 That blossomed every May 
 Have disappeared completely 
 
 Since the Old Folks went away. 
 
 The climbing" rose is missing" 
 With its mass of scarlet bloom, 
 
 Gone the purple lilac bushes 
 
 With their wealth of sweet perfume, 
 
 Page e i g h t V . n I n e 
 
And the shady apple orchard 
 
 Where the toothsome dainties grew 
 
 That hired me on my way from school 
 Alas has passed from view. 
 
 The little elevation 
 
 That we chose to call a hill 
 Has vanished with the flowers 
 
 And the murmuring- brook is still 
 That wandered through the meadows 
 
 Where the clover dark and deep 
 Watched lovingly above it 
 
 Till it sang itself to sleep. 
 
 The old red crib is standing" 
 
 Where the golden seed corn hung, 
 Near the woodshed where we gathered 
 
 When the dinner bell had rung, 
 And a score of handsome horses 
 
 That could win a prize, I know, 
 Had been safely fed and cared for 
 
 In the stable broad and low. 
 
 Once another red-haired youngster 
 
 Daily tramped the dusty trail. 
 And shared the home-made goodies 
 
 From each shining dinner pail, 
 Now no boyhood i)al awaits me 
 
 For the auburn locks are gray 
 And the homestead's bleak and lonely 
 
 Since the Old Folks went away. 
 
 ^-^^ 
 
 Hf^' 
 
 Page ninety 
 
Just across the fields they're sleeping 
 
 Where a stately pine tree stands 
 .\nd points its silent finger 
 
 To "a house not made with hands. 
 Somehow heaven will be perfect 
 
 When we view it up above, 
 If we find those precious Old Folks 
 
 ^Vnd the homestead that we love. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Page nin«ly-one 
 
Standing there ui)on the pavement 
 
 In a sleepy sort o' way 
 Is a snow-white pair of horses 
 
 That were once called dapple gray, 
 And I pause in admiration 
 
 And in reverence, as I seem 
 To sense the faithful service 
 
 Of that old white fire team. 
 
 Just a score of years have vanished 
 Since Old Fox first heard the bell, 
 
 And Rags, a trifle younger. 
 Served the city just as well ; 
 
 Page n i n e iv I n o 
 
So my truant metiiory ranges 
 
 To the things that time has wrought, 
 As I ponder o'er the changes 
 
 Since the old white team was Ijought. 
 
 Once their step was Hght and airy 
 
 Like a winsome, joyous l)ride. 
 But the l)Uoyancy departed 
 
 With the dapples from their side; 
 Eyes are not so bright, I fancy, 
 
 But I catch the old-time gleam 
 When Haley drops the harness 
 
 On the old white fire team. 
 
 Possibly they're not so speedy, 
 
 Time in his relentless roll 
 Has demanded quite a tribute 
 
 And collected quite a toll ; 
 But somehow I've a notion 
 
 That Haley's silvered hair 
 Is due to his devotion 
 
 And his love for that old pair. 
 
 They have shared the joys and sorrows 
 
 Of the city day by day. 
 Joining with the silent mourners 
 
 When our friends were laid away. 
 But when gayer throngs were gathered 
 
 They would champ their bits and prance 
 To the strains of martial music 
 
 \\'hen the boys came home from France. 
 
 Page nintly -three 
 
When the old team came to serve us 
 
 Motor trucks were still unknown, 
 But they answered every purpose 
 
 Quite unaided and alone ; 
 What though muddy streets o'erwhelmed us, 
 
 What though blizzards filled the air, 
 W^e could rest securely knowing- 
 
 That the old wdiite team was there. 
 
 Then the "onward march of progress" 
 
 Struck the city with a zest, 
 And a motor truck was purchased 
 
 That the agent called the best ; 
 1 remember quite distinctly 
 
 How he in his long discourse 
 Depicted mental anguish 
 
 At the passing- of the horse. 
 
 Thus their fate seemed sealed comi)letely. 
 
 But the wiser heads prevailed, 
 And we kept them through the Winter, 
 
 Lest the shiny motor failed ; 
 Then there came that bitter evening 
 
 When the cruel flames appalled 
 And they saved our homes and dear ones 
 
 While the handsome truck was stalled. 
 
 Now I w^ake in abject horror 
 
 When the bell rings after dark, 
 Lest the carburetor's busted 
 
 Or the spark plugs fail to spark ; 
 
 Page n i n e ly ■/ u r 
 
And although 1 hear the clatter 
 And the noise and siren's scream. 
 
 I listen for the patter 
 
 Of the old white fire team. 
 
 ) 
 
 Years will come and in their comino- 
 
 They will bring more modern ways 
 To hght the fire demon 
 
 Than Male}' and the grays, 
 Vet to them is dtie the glory 
 
 And as long as fires gleam, 
 \A'e will tell the old, old story 
 
 (Jf Haley and his team. 
 
 Page ninety. five 
 
A REAL OPTIMIST 
 
 "Dad, what is a horseman," a youngster inquired 
 Of a horse-loving- father he greatly admired. 
 "I read about chauffeurs and cars all the while 
 But it seems to me horsemen are quite out of style, 
 And teacher remarked that I should not repeat, 
 But that she believed horsemen were quite obsolete, 
 Now just what she meant I can't well make out, 
 So I thought I would ask you what it was about." 
 
 l^SKOt, 
 
 Page n i n e I y ■ 3 i X 
 
The Year Book Dad studied was closed with a slap 
 
 As he cuddled the (juestioner up in his lap ; 
 
 "My hoy, you may tell her I find as a rule 
 
 That the most of life's lessons are not learned in 
 
 school. 
 The love of a trotter you don't get from books 
 And you can't pick a i)acer because of his looks. 
 A fellow can't chum with a horse every day 
 \\'ithout beins^- bi^-i^er and l)etter some way; 
 The friends and the horses most trusted and tried 
 Are the ones that will stand without being' tied. 
 You can tell her for me that a horseman's a chap 
 Who knows all the principal towns on the map ; 
 He can g'ive you the dates when the races all start, 
 He knows wdien the trains all arrive and depart : 
 He can give you the name and the breeding offhand 
 ( )f every sensational steed in the land. 
 A horseman's a fellow wdio laughs at defeat 
 And smilingly comes to the scratch every heat, 
 And whether it's Winter or Summer or Fall, 
 He's true to his partner that stands in the stall. 
 Though the rain spoils the races he knows in the end 
 It will nourish the grass for his four-footed friend. 
 A horseman's a chap who will gi^-e his last sou 
 To a friend in distress if he knows he's true blue; 
 He reads in the coals of the old otfice stove 
 The future success of that colt that he drove, 
 And each fleecy cloud in the blue of the sky 
 Means a winning for him in the sweet bye-and-bye. 
 A horseman's a man, as I told you before. 
 Who don't get his knowledge from any book store; 
 He invoices all of the pleasure he gets 
 
 Page n i n e I y - s e V e n 
 
/ 
 
 And closes each season without the regrets ; 
 
 If his trotter don't win quite as much as he should 
 
 He knows that NEXT YEAR he is bound to make 
 
 good. 
 Just say to your teacher, your daddy insists, 
 That a horseman's the greatest of all optimists." 
 
 V 
 
 Page ninety-tight 
 
THE BLACKSMITH SHOP 
 
 There's a sleepy little village 
 
 Nestling- in a vast domain, 
 (iiiarded by the seried corn fields 
 
 And by shocks of golden grain, 
 Just a half a dozen houses 
 
 And a chtirch and school and store, 
 And a dingy little blacksmith shop 
 
 With pictures on the door. 
 
 There's no slippery, treacherous pavement, 
 
 There's no sidewalk and no curb. 
 There's no smoky, ruml^ling railroad 
 
 And no street cars to disturl), 
 Yet I'd guide my wandering footsteps 
 
 To this (juiet scene and stop 
 With head l)owed low in reverence 
 
 For that little blacksmith shop. 
 
 Page hinely-nine 
 
'Twas a sort of civic center 
 
 In the (lays of long" ago ; 
 With its welcome roof a refuge 
 
 From the sun or from the snow, 
 And the smithy's cheery greetings 
 
 Always tempted us to strav 
 To the dusky little blacksmith shop 
 
 1'hat stood across the \\a\'. 
 
 With its windows barred and 1)roken 
 
 And its moss-grown shingles curled. 
 It was still in boyhood fancies 
 
 Quite the best in all the world ; 
 For its weather-beaten battens 
 
 Would flame anew each Spring 
 With the gorgeous new creations 
 
 That the poster man would bring. 
 
 Fnvied was the lucky culprit 
 
 Teacher stood upon the floor. 
 For he could watch proceedings 
 
 Through the open schoolhouse door ; 
 He could see the poster fellow ,j i:j 
 
 Clean the little blacksmith shop ll 
 
 And paste another picture '' 
 
 From the bottom to the top. 
 
 Some kids loved the circus posters 
 
 With the lions in their rage 
 And a lady calndy sitting 
 
 In the tawnv tiger's cage ; 
 But the picture most entrancing ) 
 
 That glued me to the spot j 
 
 Was the rearing, plunging horses 
 
 Entered at the county trot. ; 
 
 h e h u h J r rtt 
 
P'our — a l:)ay, a gray, a chestnut . 
 
 And a black one on a break, 
 While his driver's frantic efforts 
 
 Caused my boyish heart to ache, 
 Thus I stood there in the gloaming 
 
 Of that happy Summer day 
 When the trotting bills were posted 
 
 ( )m the shop across the way. 
 
 I have seen the Rosa Bonheurs 
 
 And the Keiths and Rembrandts, too. 
 Of many famous pictures 
 
 I have since then had a view ; 
 But there's nothing halts my footsteps 
 
 And causes me to stop. 
 Like a flaming trotting poster 
 
 Pasted on a blacksmith shop. 
 
 One hundred o n i 
 
THE SPORT WORTH WHILE 
 
 There's a mighty satisfaction 
 
 When the tish are biting- good. 
 And you quickly get your hmit 
 
 As a hicky angler should ; 
 To the chap who is a hunter 
 
 It must be a jov indeed 
 To bag' a brace of mallards 
 
 livery time }'ou draw a bead ; 
 There nuist be a lot of ])leasiu"e 
 
 In the games of golf or chess 
 If your winning and your partner 
 
 Is plainly in distress ; 
 But oh, the joy worth knowing" 
 
 That nothing ecpials (juite. 
 Is to feel the thrill of rapture 
 
 When your trotter's going right. 
 
 v> 
 
 One hundred two 
 
When the morning" light is l)reaking' 
 
 To the robin's sweet refrain. 
 And you grab your cakes and cotTee 
 
 Like you had to catch a train, 
 \\'hen your wife in l)lank amazement 
 
 Wonders why you're up so soon. 
 And explains to yawning kiddies, 
 
 "Daddy won't be home till noon." 
 When you don your old white Stetson 
 
 And kiss them at the door. 
 As you pause to fill the wood-box 
 
 That you've passed so oft before, 
 llien it is that life's worth living 
 
 And the old world's mighty bright, 
 'Cause his name's among the entries 
 
 And your trotter's working right. 
 
 ■ BOOTS ALL ON HIM 
 
 One hundred h r e d 
 
When you reach the ckisty ovaf 
 
 And you say to Windy Al, 
 "Just put the l)oots all on him 
 
 And I'll step him up, old Pal." 
 When you take the sulky gently 
 
 From its peg up on the wall. 
 And l)lo\v up the i)esky tires 
 
 That were none too good last Fall, 
 When you jog him till he's ready 
 And turn him at the score, 
 And he seems to pull you faster 
 
 Than he ever has before. 
 Then it is you count your money, 
 
 For he's charmed you by his flight, 
 And you can't be pessimistic 
 
 When your trotter's working right. 
 
 § 
 
 One h u n a r e a / o U f 
 
/ .,, .. .>o to all you sportsmen 
 
 Misguided but sincere, 
 I've a bit of information 
 
 I would whisper in your ear. 
 If you enjoy your fishing 
 Or any sport you've found, 
 If you like to go a-hunting 
 
 ( )r chase the pill around. 
 Just keep it u\) l)Ut take a ride 
 
 Behind a horse at speed, 
 1 will not advise you further. 
 
 There won't be any need, 
 You'll sell the whole equipment 
 
 Before tomorrow night, 
 If you'll sit behind a trotter 
 
 Or a pacer when he's right. 
 
 One hundred five 
 
FINIS 
 
 The tan-l)ark riiii;" is hushed and still 
 And fitful shadows play 
 W^iere crafty riders rode at will 
 The steeds of yesterday; 
 y\nd yet how like the ring" is life, 
 We ))rimp and strut and bravely try 
 l^'or one brief moment in the strife 
 To shine triunrnliant in the Judge's eve; 
 Some day the silvery bugle's tone 
 Will call us to the (ireat Unknown, 
 And when ( )ld (labriel blows his blast 
 And Peter swings the gate at last 
 We'll find performance counts far more 
 Than conformation in the score 
 Idiat's kept up there, and so my friend 
 Let us so live that in the end 
 \\'hen all life's show is through 
 We'll g-et a RLUh:. 
 
 I '•\ 
 
 W 
 
 One hundred i i x 
 
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