heels antically through his treasured dashboard. Indeed, thespectacle that the huge horse presented was so magnificent, his actionso free, spirited, and playful, as he came sweeping onward, that cheersand exclamations, such as, "Good heavens! see the deacon's old horse!""Look at him! look at him!" "What a stride!" etc., ran ahead of him, andold Bill Sykes, a trainer in his day, but now a hanger-on at thevillage tavern, or that section of it known as the bar, wiped hiswatery eyes with his tremulous fist, as he saw Jack come swinging down,and, as he swept past with his open gait, powerful stroke, and stifflesplaying well out, brought his hand with a mighty slap against his thigh,and said, "I'll be blowed if he isn't a regular old timer!"
It was fortunate for the deacon and the parson that the noise andcheering of the crowd drew the attention of the drivers ahead, or therewould surely have been more than one collision, for the old sleigh wasof such size and strength, the good deacon so unskilled at the reins,and Jack, who was adding to his momentum with every stride, was going atso determined a pace, that, had he struck the rear line, with no gap forhim to go through, something serious would surely have happened. But, asit was, the drivers saw the huge horse, with the cumbrous old sleighbehind him, bearing down on them at such a gait as made their own speed,sharp as it was, seem slow, and "pulled out" in time to savethemselves; and so without any mishap the big horse and heavy sleighswept through the rear row of racers like an autumn gust through acluster of leaves.
By this time the deacon had become somewhat alarmed, for Jack was goingnigh to a thirty clip,--a frightful pace for an inexperienced man toride,--and began to put a good strong pressure upon the bit, notdoubting that old Jack--ordinarily the easiest horse in the world tomanage--would take the hint and immediately slow up. But though the hugehorse took the hint, it was exactly in the opposite manner that thedeacon intended he should, for he interpreted the little man's steadypull as an intimation that his inexperienced driver was getting over hisflurry and beginning to treat him as a big horse ought to be treated ina race, and that he could now, having got settled to his work, go ahead.And go ahead he did. The more the deacon pulled, the more the greathorse felt himself steadied and assisted. And so, the harder the goodman tugged at the reins, the more powerfully the machinery of the biganimal ahead of him worked, until the deacon got alarmed, and began tocall upon the horse to stop, crying, "Whoa, Jack! whoa, old boy, I say!Whoa, will you now, that's a good fellow!" and many other coaxing calls,while he pulled away steadily at the reins.
But the horse misunderstood the deacon's calls, as he had his pressureon the reins, for the crowd on either side were now yelling, andhooting, and swinging their caps, so that the deacon's voice cameindistinctly to his ears at the best, and he interpreted his calls forhim to stop as only so many encouragements and signals for him to goahead; and so, with the memory of a hundred races stirring his blood,the crowd cheering him to the echo, the steadying pull and encouragingcries of his driver in his ears, and his only rival, the pacer, whirlingalong only a few rods ahead of him, the monstrous animal, with adesperate plunge that half lifted the old sleigh from the snow, let outanother link, and, with such a burst of speed as was never seen in thevillage before, tore along after the pacer at such a terrific pace that,within the distance of a dozen lengths, he lay lapped upon him, and thetwo were going it nose and nose.
What is that feeling in human hearts which makes us sympathetic with manor animal who has unexpectedly developed courage and capacity whenengaged in a struggle in which the odds are against him? And why do weenter so spiritedly into the contest, and lose ourselves in theexcitement of the moment? Is it pride? Is it the comradeship of courage?Or is it the rising of the indomitable in us, that loves nothing so muchas victory, and hates nothing so much as defeat? Be that as it may, nosooner was old Jack fairly lapped on the pacer, whose driver was urginghim along with reins and voice alike, and the contest seemeddoubtful, than the spirit of old Adam himself entered into the deaconand the parson both, so that, carried away by the excitement of therace, they fairly forgot themselves, and entered as wildly into thecontest as two ungodly jockeys.
THE RACE.]
"Deacon Tubman!" said the parson, as he clutched the rim of his tallhat, against which, as the horse tore along, the snow chips were peltingin showers, more stoutly, "Deacon Tubman! do you think the pacer willbeat us?"
"Not if I can help it! not if I can help it!" yelled the deacon inreply, as, with something like a reinsman's skill, he instinctivelylifted Jack to another spurt. "Go it, old boy!" he shoutedencouragingly. "Go along with you, I say!" and the parson, also carriedaway by the whirl of the moment, cried, "Go along, old boy! Go alongwith you, I say!"
This was the very thing, and the only thing, that huge horse, whoseblood was now fairly aflame, wanted to rally him for the final effort;and, in response to the encouraging cries of the two behind him, hegathered himself together for another burst of speed, and put forth hiscollected strength with such tremendous energy and suddenness ofmovement that the little deacon, who had risen, and was standing erectin the sleigh, fell back into the arms of the parson, while the greathorse rushed over the line a winner by a clear length, amid such cheersand roars of laughter as were never heard in that village before.
Nor was the horse any more the object of public interest and remark--wemay say favoring remark--than the parson, who suddenly found himself thecentre of a crowd of his own parishioners, many of whom would scarcelybe expected as participants of such a scene, but who, thawed out oftheir iciness by the genial temper of the day, and vastly excited overJack's contest, thronged upon the good man, laughing as heartily as anyjolly sinner in the crowd.
So everybody shook hands with the parson and wished him a Happy NewYear, and the parson shook hands with everybody and wished them all manyhappy returns; and everybody praised old Jack, and rallied the deacon onhis driving; and then everybody went home good-natured and happy,laughing and talking about the wonderful race, and the change that hadcome over Parson Whitney.
And as for Parson Whitney himself, the day and its fun had taken twentyyears from his age, and nothing would answer but the deacon must go homeand eat the New Year's pudding at the parsonage; and he did. And at thetable they laughed and talked over the funny incidents of the day, andjoked each other as merrily as two boys. Then Parson Whitney told somereminiscences of his college days, and the scrapes he got into, and ariot between town and gown, when he carried the "Bully's Club;" and thedeacon responded by narrating his experiences with a certain DeaconJones's watermelon patch when he was a boy, and over their tales andtheir mulled cider they laughed till they cried, and roared so lustilyat the remembered frolics of their youthful days that the old parsonagerang, the books on the library shelves rattled, and several of thetheological volumes actually gaped with horror.
But at last the stories were all told, the jokes all cracked, and thelaughter all laughed, and the little deacon wished the parson good-by,and jogged happily homeward; but more than once he laughed to himself,and said, "Bless my soul! I didn't know the parson had so much fun inhim." And long the parson sat by the glowing grate after the deacon hadleft him, musing of other days, and the happy, pleasant things that werein them; and many times he smiled, and once he laughed outright at someremembered folly, for he said, "What a wild boy I was, and yet I meantno wrong; and the dear old days were very happy."
Ay, ay! Parson Whitney, the dear old days were very happy, not only tothee, but to all of us, who, following our sun, have fared westward solong that the light of the morning shows dull through the dim haze ofmemory. But happier than even the old days will be the young ones, Iween, when, following still westward, we suddenly come to the gates ofthe new east and the morning once more; and there, in the dawn of a daywhich is cloudless and endless, we find our lost youth and its loves, tolose them and it no more forever, thank God!
THE LEAF OF RED ROSE.