IN OLD SAN ANTONIO 165 



is amazed when the long-tailed creature darts 

 out of the brush and races the horses down the 

 road, easily keeping ahead as they trot, and 

 when tired turns out into the brush and throws 

 his tail over his back to stop himself." 



My bird's performance was less theatrical than 

 that, perhaps because I was on foot, perhaps be- 

 cause the day was Sunday, perhaps because of the 

 absence of a thoroughfare ; but I was well pleased. 



It is noticeable how birds, not less than men, 

 tend to become specialists. To accomplish one 

 thing supremely well, that is certainly the way 

 to make one's self famous. And that is what the 

 road-runner does. He has chosen a hobby, and 

 he rides it. His legs are proportionally no longer 

 than other birds', but that does not matter. Such 

 as they are, he will make the most of them. 



He is like a certain Maine farmer of whom I 

 have heard, a plain tiller of the soil, who feels, 

 nevertheless, that he was born for better things ; 

 not for a cart-horse, if you please, but for a race- 

 horse. He may be working on his farm, at the 

 plough, we will say ; suddenly the impulse comes 

 upon him, as inspiration is said to come upon a 

 poet ; there is nothing for it but he must start 

 and run ; and so he does. Once every summer 

 he travels from Maine to Mount Washington, 

 for the great event of the year. When he ap- 



