MORVICH 



stall, upon which is the brass plate, bearing 

 my name and those of my dam and sire, out 

 over the silent downs, vast and shadowy and 

 deserted with the great stands looming large 

 beneath the moonlight in the distance, I take 

 heart of hope from a reflection or two. And, 

 principally, I am thinking of what little Mose, 

 that little darky stableboy of my early days, 

 used to whisper to me: "Yo-all's got de stout 

 hea't, Honey Boy. Dat's wot wins de race." 



Ah, how true that is. Perhaps you who 

 watch the horses run are of the opinion that 

 the speediest horse wins, other things being 

 even. That is not true. The race is not always 

 to the swift. A racer has got to have speed 

 and endurance, of course, but above all else he 

 must have class. And class is naught more or 

 less than stoutheartedness. 



We are out there, racing. One horse leads. 

 Another thunders up behind him. "Come on, 

 boy, come on!" The roar from the stands 

 sweeps out across infield and track. The heart 



—40- 



