Drawing of hitched horses, tied to rails at the race track
Scarce noticed, back behind the rest,By cart and wagon rudely prest,The parson’s lean and bony bayStood 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 trotAmong 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 youHas ever heard the name “Old Blue,”Whose fame through all this region rungIn those old days when I was young!
“Bring forth the horse!” Alas! he showedNot 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
Drawing of a man leading a horse hitched to a light carriage
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 freeFrom strap and rein,—a sight to see!
Drawing of a crowd with a man laughing at the horse being unharnessed
So worn, so lean in every limb,It can’t be they are saddling him!It is! his back the pig-skin stridesAnd flaps his lank, rheumatic sides;With look of mingled scorn and mirthThey buckle round the saddle-girth;With horsey wink and saucy tossA 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.
Drawing of the horse with jockey being led away from the crowd
Drawing of the horse cantering along the race track rail
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-beamFirst feels the gathering head of steam,With warning cough and threatening wheezeThe 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 wellThat time is weight and sure to tell;No horse so sturdy but he fearsThe handicap of twenty years.As through the throng on either handThe old horse nears the judges’ stand,Beneath his jockey’s feather-weightHe warms a little to his gait,And now and then a step is triedThat hints of something like a stride.
Drawing of the horse trotting past the grandstands
“Go!”—Through his ear the summons stungAs if a battle-trump had rung;The slumbering instincts long unstirredStart at the old familiar word;It thrills like flame through every limb—What mean his twenty years to him?The savage blow his rider dealtFell on his hollow flanks unfelt;The spur that pricked his staring hideUnheeded 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 clungAs 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 whileBehind him like a rat-tail file!
Drawing from the rear of the horse heading down the race track, with people scattering in front
Off went a shoe,—away it spun,Shot like a bullet from a gun;The quaking jockey shapes a prayerFrom scraps of oaths he used to swear;He drops his whip, he drops his rein,He clutches fiercely for a mane;
Drawing of the horse running down the track with the jockey holding on to the saddle, with the reins flying
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 letgo—”“That pace can’t hold,—there! steady! whoa!”But like the sable steed that boreThe 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.
Head-on drawing of the horse running past the grandstands, the jockey has his arms wrapped around the horse's neck
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.”
Drawing of horses running down the track
Drawing of the pack of horses chasing after the leader
Look! twice they follow at his heels,As round the circling course he wheels,And whirls with him that clinging boyLike Hector round the walls of Troy;Still on, and on, the third time round!They’re tailing off! they’re losing ground!
Drawing of the lead horse pulling away from the pack
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!
Drawing of the horse coming to the grandstands with the pack far behind
Drawing of a group of men comparing watches
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 understandWhat happened to his second hand;One said 2.10;thatcouldn’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 surpriseAnd 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 sayAbout that tough old trotting bay.Huddup! Huddup! G’lang!—Good-day!
Drawing of the horse being hitched to the chaise, surrounded by the race track crowd
Moral for which this tale is told:A horsecantrot, for all he’s old.
Drawing of the man standing by his horse
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Drawing of a streetcar with witches on broomsticks flying in the sky above it
Lookout! Look out, boys! Clear the track!The witches are here! They’ve all come back!They hanged them high,—No use! No use!What cares a witch for a hangman’s noose?They buried them deep, but they wouldn’t lie still,For cats and witches are hard to kill;They swore they shouldn’t and wouldn’t die,—Books said they did, but they lie! they lie!
—A couple of hundred years, or so,They had knocked about in the world below,When an Essex Deacon dropped in to call,And a homesick feeling seized them all;For he came from a place they knew full well,And many a tale he had to tell.
Drawing of a man facing a group of witch ghosts
Drawing of a long barn
They long to visit the haunts of men,To see the old dwellings they knew again,And ride on their broomsticks all aroundTheir wide domain of unhallowed ground.
In Essex county there’s many a roofWell known to him of the cloven hoof;The small square windows are full in viewWhich the midnight hags went sailing through,
Drawing of a witch witch, with a black cat on top of her hat, holding a broom, climbing out a window
On their well-trained broomsticks mounted high,Seen like shadows against the sky;Crossing the track of owls and bats,Hugging before them their coal-black cats.
Well did they know, those gray old wives,The sights we see in our daily drives:Shimmer of lake and shine of sea,Brown’s bare hill with its lonely tree,(It wasn’t then as we see it now,With one scant scalp-lock to shade its brow;)Dusky nooks in the Essex woods,Dark, dim, Dante-like solitudes,Where the tree-toad watches the sinuous snakeGlide through his forests of fern and brake;
Drawing of a hag walking down a dark forest path
Ipswich River; its old stone bridge;Far off Andover’s Indian Ridge,And many a scene where history tellsSome shadow of bygone terror dwells,—Of “Norman’s Woe” with its tale of dread,
Drawing of a ship being swamped at by waves
Drawing of a ghostly woman standing on a rock in water near the edge of the sea
Of the Screeching Woman of Marblehead,(The fearful story that turns men pale:Don’t bid me tell it,—my speech would fail.)
Who would not, will not, if he can,Bathe in the breezes of fair Cape Ann,—Rest in the bowers her bays enfold,Loved by the sachems and squaws of old?Home where the white magnolias bloom,Sweet with the bayberry’s chaste perfume,Hugged by the woods and kissed by the sea!Where is the Eden like to thee?
For that “couple of hundred years, or so,”There had been no peace in the world below;The witches still grumbling, “It isn’t fair;Come, give us a taste of the upper air!We’ve had enough of your sulphur springs,And the evil odor that round them clings;We long for a drink that is cool and nice,—Great buckets of water with Wenham ice;
Drawing of the arms and heads of a group of witches reaching out their arms
We’ve served you well up-stairs, you know;You’re a good old—fellow—come, let us go!”
I don’t feel sure of his being good,But he happened to be in a pleasant mood,—As fiends with their skins full sometimes are,—(He’d been drinking with “roughs” at a Boston bar.)So what does he do but up and shoutTo a graybeard turnkey, “Let ’em out!”
To mind his orders was all he knew;The gates swung open, and out they flew“Where are our broomsticks?” the beldams cried.
Drawing of a group of witches surrounding the Devil
“Here are your broomsticks,” an imp replied.“They’ve been in—the place you know—so longThey smell of brimstone uncommon strong;But they’ve gained by being left alone,—Just look, and you’ll see how tall they’ve grown.”
Drawing of a group of witches with their broomsticks flying over a streetcar
Drawing of a group of black witch's cats running to the witches
—“And where is my cat?” a vixen squalled.“Yes, where are our cats?” the witches bawled,And began to call them all by name:As fast as they called the cats, they came:There was bob-tailed Tommy and long-tailed Tim,And wall-eyed Jacky and green-eyed Jim,And splay-foot Benny and slim-legged Beau,And Skinny and Squally, and Jerry and Joe,And many another that came at call,—It would take too long to count them all.All black,—one could hardly tell which was which,But every cat knew his own old witch;And she knew hers as hers knew her,—Ah, didn’t they curl their tails and purr!
No sooner the withered hags were freeThan out they swarmed for a midnight spree;I couldn’t tell all they did in rhymes,But the Essex people had dreadful times.
Drawing of four men running away from a witch
Drawing of a man and woman looking up into the sky at the witches flying above them
The Swampscott fishermen still relateHow a strange sea-monster stole their bait;How their nets were tangled in loops and knots,And they found dead crabs in their lobster-pots.Poor Danvers grieved for her blasted crops,And Wilmington mourned over mildewed hops.A blight played havoc with Beverly beans,—It was all the work of those hateful queans!A dreadful panic began at “Pride’s,”Where the witches stopped in their midnight rides,And there rose strange rumors and vague alarms’Mid the peaceful dwellers at Beverly Farms.
Drawing of two men in a small boat with a strange creature on their line in the water
Now when the Boss of the Beldams foundThat without his leave they were ramping round,He called,—they could hear him twenty miles,From Chelsea beach to the Misery Isles;The deafest old granny knew his toneWithout the trick of the telephone.
Drawing of the Devil dancing in the darkness
“Come here, you witches! Come here!” says he,—“At your games of old, without asking me!I’ll give you a little job to doThat will keep you stirring, you godless crew!”
They came, of course, at their master’s call,The witches, the broomsticks, the cats, and all;
Drawing of the witches and cats returning
He led the hags to a railway trainThe horses were trying to drag in vain.“Now, then,” says he, “you’ve had your fun,And here are the cars you’ve got to run.The driver may just unhitch his team,We don’t want horses, we don’t want steamYou may keep your old black cats to hug,But the loaded train you’ve got to lug.”
Since then on many a car you’ll seeA broomstick plain as plain can be;On every stick there’s a witch astride,—The string you see to her leg is tied.She will do a mischief if she can,But the string is held by a careful man,And whenever the evil-minded witchWould cut some caper, he gives a twitch.
Drawing of a streetcar
As for the hag, you can’t see her,But hark! you can hear her black cat’s purr,And now and then, as a car goes by,You may catch a gleam from her wicked eye.
Often you’ve looked on a rushing train,But just what moved it was not so plain.It couldn’t be those wires above,For they could neither pull nor shove;Where was the motor that made it goYou couldn’t guess,but now you know.
Drawing of a witch, with her cat on her hat, flying on her broomstick in front of the moon
Remember my rhymes when you ride againOn the rattling rail by the broomstick train!
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Transcriber’s NoteThe following typographical errors were corrected.PageError9one-hoss-shayone-hoss shay49let go—let go—”
Transcriber’s Note
The following typographical errors were corrected.