BAR-GEE
BAR-GEE
I
IAM only a horse but if men could understand all the joy of being a thoroughbred with a record of 1:21, they would not say so pityingly that horses have almost human intelligence, for in possessing horse sense we have a gift that is just as great.
The first years of my colthood were spent under a trainer’s eye. As the months passed, he developed in my growing limbs the speed that was my birthright. Coming as I do from a long line of aristocrats, my name was entered early for the Great American Derby. When that day came, my heart was sofull of the spirit of the race, I surprised myself as well as my trainers. Then followed three years of a hard professional career, all that time being spent on the flat and on the steeplechase track. I traveled from city to city, making and breaking records, until my health failed, and I was sold to a kindly gentleman who rode me in the city parks. It was humiliating at times to have to run with the ordinary park hacks one meets on the bridle paths; but for my master’s sake, for my master was always good to me, I would hold back and try to make it “sporty” coming in at the finish.
One day my feet fairly danced with joy, for again I was to be trained for a real race to be held at one of the country clubs. My trainer and I would go to the parks early, before the police were onduty, for they didn’t seem to know the difference between a sporty run and a flighty-headed runaway. My legs were bandaged to keep them in condition under the extraordinary work and strain, and as I looked back over my flanks, they seemed daily to grow in muscle and shapeliness with the vigorous exercise. Each muscle and nerve quivered, anxious to show what it was capable of doing.
At last the long looked for day came. The grand stand was full of people, and as my master patted my neck and smoothed down my slender legs, picking up each hoof to look into it for trouble, he whispered into my ear, “Good luck, Bar-Gee, old boy! Go in and win, and show them what a good horse can do.”
I found it hard to keep all four feet on the ground at once, my heart was solight and happy, and I fear I gave some little trouble at the post, the old plugs were so slow in coming up. My racing blood urged me to be off. Every drop of it was dancing and crying for the sport. At last the starting wire flew up, and we were off. I stretched myself very close to the ground, making no false moves, and the earth danced away under my flying feet. My jockey clung to the snaffle and never used the whip. I could hear the other horses coming after me, breathing and snorting, their jockeys all using whips and spurs. By this time I had but one thought—to keep in the lead and to win, win, win! As we turned the half-mile post my jockey put his whip on me. This angered me, for I was only waiting to come a little nearer the field so the finish would be morebrilliant before my master. I knew he had sugar in his pocket. We pulled into the home stretch, and my hoofs fairly sang on the turf. The people in the grand stand jumped to their feet and cheered as I came under the wire just twenty feet ahead of second. It took me a quarter of a mile beyond that to stop, for once my instinct for racing was aroused, the blood of my ancestors asserted itself, and I hated knowing it was all over.
Wreaths of flowers were hung around my neck, and I was walked up and down in front of the judges and the grand stand. I wanted so to get to my master and talk it all over with him, with my nose in his loving hand. I was so glad I had won the big silver cup I even allowed his women folk to talk baby talk to me,which is, of course, foolish—and besides, I hadn’t forgotten the sugar.
During that autumn I was shipped down to my master’s estate in Virginia, where the horses are all trained for fox hunting and not for speed. I enjoyed a few runs, but the hunters do not know what this sport is; their game evidently is not to see how fast they can go or how high they can jump, but how close they can keep to the dogs without stepping on them. It always makes me angry to be held in, so I do not make good as a hunter. Moreover, I have developed a cough, which makes it hard for me to breathe, and being infectious, compels me to spend my days alone in an open field.
I frequently have friendly chats over the fence with the other horses, but it is unsafe to have us together. I mustconfess my heart is sad when my master rides by on his big hunter. I hate that horse, and if my heels could reach him, he would not put on such airs and lord it over me. Of course I am not jealous, for I know my master loves me, and I often hear him giving orders for my comfort; but I am never taken out now. My cough is growing worse, and I feel I am getting old.
One night there was great excitement because a drunken negro had stolen me and sold me for twelve dollars. Think of the indignity! My blue-blooded ancestors must have turned in their graves or stood on their hind legs with indignation if they knew it. I was taken many miles away and shut up in a lot surrounded by a five-rail fence. When I was left alone, I jumped the fence and started for home.The going was hard, as I was impatient to get home again, and my cough had made me feeble. I wanted so to stop and rest by the cool roadside where the grass looked fresh and green, but I did not dare, for I knew I should be missed. At last I saw the Blue Ridge Farm stables. How good they looked to me! I had just strength enough to whinny to my friends in the paddock as I trotted into the stable, tired, but happy and contented.
Now I am living on the best of the land, and as I rest under the big chestnut tree in the paddock, my thoughts run back to the days when my jockey slept in my stall to keep me safe from foul play. I see myself, blanketed, ready to appear before the judges, and impatiently waiting while my jockey is weighing in. The grand stand is gaywith music and flags. The light saddle is tossed across my back. A race is before me. Ah! those were the happiest moments of my life.
The races are all run now—all but one, and that will be the run over to the Happy Hunting Ground. I hope when the last wire flies up, I shall be brave and full of hope, and go in as a thoroughbred should.