MY QUEST OF THE ARAB HORSE 



thrills of wars and races; with its beautiful 

 open air, as compared with the musty stuffed 

 corral she had been picketed in. She was get- 

 ting away from civilization and back to the 

 open. Once in a while she stopped short, ap- 

 parently to scent the rapidly cooling atmos- 

 phere. Now and then she pranced, picking her 

 way between camel thistles. Her ears were 

 alert ; her eyes were blazing with an expression 

 of intense satisfaction. All this time, I found 

 by my wet cheeks, that I had been crying with- 

 out knowing it. I was wrought up to a state of 

 much excitement. I was again a boy and felt 

 the presence of my parents, and recalled the 

 stories of the Arab horses, they used to tell me 

 when I was a child. I remembered the draw- 

 ings I had made of them as a boy. It was hard 

 to realize that I was I, and that I was astride 

 the most distinguished mare of the desert. I 

 seemed then to realize what she was and what 

 she meant to me. My face was dripping again 

 and I felt glad I was alone. 



Wadduda had stopped short again and was 

 scanning the horizon. I touched the mare with 

 my heels, but she did not move. She was 

 thinking. Of what, who knows? Perhaps of 

 her wars; or of combats on the desert, or of 



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