HOW THE OLD HORSE WON THE BET, by Oliver Wendell Holmes [poem]

’Twas on the famous trotting-ground,

The betting men were gathered round

From far and near; the “cracks” were there

Whose deeds the sporting prints declare:

The swift g. m., Old Hiram’s nag,

The fleet s. h., Dan Pfeiffer’s brag,

With these a third—and who is he

That stands beside his fast b. g.?

Budd Doble, whose catarrhal name

So fills the nasal trump of fame.

There too stood many a noted steed

Of Messenger and Morgan breed;

Green horses also, not a few;

Unknown as yet what they could do;

And all the hacks that know so well

The scourgings of the Sunday swell.

Blue are the skies of opening day;

The bordering turf is green with May;

The sunshine’s golden gleam is thrown

On sorrel, chestnut, bay, and roan;

The horses paw and prance and neigh,

Fillies and colts like kittens play,

And dance and toss their rippled manes

Shining and soft as silken skeins;

Wagons and gigs are ranged about,

And fashion flaunts her gay turn-out;

Here stands,—each youthful Jehu’s dream,—

The jointed tandem, ticklish team!

And there in ampler breadth expand

The splendors of the four-in-hand;

On faultless ties and glossy tiles

The lovely bonnets beam their smiles;

(The style’s the man, so books avow;

The style’s the woman, anyhow;)

From flounces frothed with creamy lace

Peeps out the pug-dog’s smutty face,

Or spaniel rolls his liquid eye,

Or stares the wiry pet of Skye;—

O woman, in your hours of ease

So shy with us, so free with these!

“Come on! I’ll bet you two to one

I’ll make him do it!” “Will you? Done!”

What was it who was bound to do?

I did not hear and can’t tell you,—

Pray listen till my story’s through.

Scarce noticed, back behind the rest,

By cart and wagon rudely prest,

The parson’s lean and bony bay

Stood harnessed in his one-horse shay—

Lent to his sexton for the day;

(A funeral—so the sexton said;

His mother’s uncle’s wife was dead.)

Like Lazarus bid to Dives’ feast,

So looked the poor forlorn old beast;

His coat was rough, his tail was bare,

The gray was sprinkled in his hair;

Sportsmen and jockeys knew him not,

And yet they say he once could trot

Among the fleetest of the town,

Till something cracked and broke him down,—

The steed’s, the statesman’s, common lot!

“And are we then so soon forgot?”

Ah me! I doubt if one of you

Has ever heard the name “Old Blue,”

Whose fame through all this region rung

In those old days when I was young!

“Bring forth the horse!” Alas! he showed

Not like the one Mazeppa rode;

Scant-maned, sharp-backed, and shaky-kneed,

The wreck of what was once a steed,

Lips thin, eyes hollow, stiff in joints;

Yet not without his knowing points.

The sexton laughing in his sleeve,

As if ’t were all a make-believe,

Led forth the horse, and as he laughed

Unhitched the breeching from a shaft,

Unclasped the rusty belt beneath,

Drew forth the snaffle from his teeth,

Slipped off his head-stall, set him free

From strap and rein,—a sight to see!

So worn, so lean in every limb,

It can’t be they are saddling him!

It is! his back the pig-skin strides

And flaps his lank, rheumatic sides;

With look of mingled scorn and mirth

They buckle round the saddle-girth;

With horsey wink and saucy toss

A youngster throws his leg across,

And so, his rider on his back,

They lead him, limping, to the track,

Far up behind the starting-point,

To limber out each stiffened joint.

As through the jeering crowd he past,

One pitying look old Hiram cast;

“Go it, ye cripple, while ye can!”

Cried out unsentimental Dan;

“A Fast-Day dinner for the crows!”

Budd Doble’s scoffing shout arose.

Slowly, as when the walking-beam

First feels the gathering head of steam,

With warning cough and threatening wheeze

The stiff old charger crooks his knees;

At first with cautious step sedate,

As if he dragged a coach of state;

He’s not a colt; he knows full well

That time is weight and sure to tell;

No horse so sturdy but he fears

The handicap of twenty years.

As through the throng on either hand

The old horse nears the judges’ stand,

Beneath his jockey’s feather-weight

He warms a little to his gait,

And now and then a step is tried

That hints of something like a stride.

“Go!”—Through his ear the summons stung

As if a battle-trump had rung;

The slumbering instincts long unstirred

Start at the old familiar word;

It thrills like flame through every limb—

What mean his twenty years to him?

The savage blow his rider dealt

Fell on his hollow flanks unfelt;

The spur that pricked his staring hide

Unheeded tore his bleeding side;

Alike to him are spur and rein,—

He steps a five-year-old again!

Before the quarter pole was past,

Old Hiram said, “He’s going fast.”

Long ere the quarter was a half,

The chuckling crowd had ceased to laugh;

Tighter his frightened jockey clung

As in a mighty stride he swung,

The gravel flying in his track,

His neck stretched out, his ears laid back,

His tail extended all the while

Behind him like a rat-tail file!

Off went a shoe,—away it spun,

Shot like a bullet from a gun;

The quaking jockey shapes a prayer

From scraps of oaths he used to swear;

He drops his whip, he drops his rein,

He clutches fiercely for a mane;

He’ll lose his hold—he sways and reels—

He’ll slide beneath those trampling heels!

The knees of many a horseman quake,

The flowers on many a bonnet shake,

And shouts arise from left and right,

“Stick on! Stick on!” “Hould tight! Hould tight!”

“Cling round his neck and don’t let go—”

“That pace can’t hold—there! steady! whoa!”

But like the sable steed that bore

The spectral lover of Lenore,

His nostrils snorting foam and fire,

No stretch his bony limbs can tire;

And now the stand he rushes by,

And “Stop him!—stop him!” is the cry.

Stand back! he’s only just begun,—

He’s having out three heats in one!

“Don’t rush in front! he’ll smash your brains;

But follow up and grab the reins!”

Old Hiram spoke. Dan Pfeiffer heard,

And sprang impatient at the word;

Budd Doble started on his bay,

Old Hiram followed on his gray,

And off they spring, and round they go,

The fast ones doing “all they know.”

Look! twice they follow at his heels,

As round the circling course he wheels,

And whirls with him that clinging boy

Like Hector round the walls of Troy;

Still on, and on, the third time round!

They’re tailing off! they’re losing ground!

Budd Doble’s nag begins to fail!

Dan Pfeiffer’s sorrel whisks his tail!

And see! in spite of whip and shout,

Old Hiram’s mare is giving out!

Now for the finish! at the turn,

The old horse—all the rest astern,—

Comes swinging in, with easy trot;

By Jove! he’s distanced all the lot!

That trot no mortal could explain;

Some said, “Old Dutchman come again!”

Some took his time,—at least they tried,

But what it was could none decide;

One said he couldn’t understand

What happened to his second hand;

One said 2:10; that couldn’t be—

More like two twenty two or three;

Old Hiram settled it at last;

“The time was two—too dee-vel-ish fast!”

The parson’s horse had won the bet;

It cost him something of a sweat;

Back in the one-hoss shay he went;

The parson wondered what it meant,

And murmured, with a mild surprise

And pleasant twinkle of the eyes,

“That funeral must have been a trick,

Or corpses drive at double-quick;

I shouldn’t wonder, I declare,

If brother—Jehu—made the prayer!”

And this is all I have to say

About that tough old trotting bay.

Huddup! Huddup! G’lang!—Good-day!

Moral for which this tale is told:

A horse can trot, for all he’s old.