THE END. 



And this is all I have to say 



About the parson's poor old bay, 



The same that drew the one-horse shay. 



Holmes. 



The yarn for this volume of "Tales of the Turf 

 has been spun. The horses whose names have been 

 woven into the warp and woof of the book are again 

 in their places on the shelves for another run out with 

 the dust and to "dumb forgetfulness a prey." As 

 they again pass into the shadow, thoughts of those 

 who made them famous, and of those who recorded 

 their performances peep through the smoke wreathes 

 of memory and flutter for a few minutes like moats 

 in an arrow of light. They, too, with few exceptions, 

 have been carried to their little palaces of clay, the 

 simple records of the facts being all that remains for 

 their labor and sweat, toil and trouble, ambitious 

 dreams and hope of reward. Others took their places 

 and the world jogged on without a ripple. It has 

 been so since Creation's dawn, and shall continue. 

 All come and all go. For a few the footing is good, 

 sky clear and everything favorable, while others find 

 the going heavy and rough, see banks of clouds on 

 the horizon and meet obstacles at every turn, but 

 when the race is finished and the last of the fates 

 snips the thread, the end is the same. 



