MORVICH 



of the leading horse, an animal so sensitive 

 that he thrills to the touch of a lady's glove, 

 beats suffocatingly. That shouting from the 

 stands; that thunder of hoof beats behind. Ah, 

 he cannot stand this! He must pull up. And, 

 speedier though he may be, the stouter-hearted 

 wins. 



And I remember what I once heard of that 

 famous race between Man-o'-War and John P. 

 Grier. Until he met the latter, Man-o'-War 

 had never been given a real race. But when 

 he ran alone against Mr. Whitney's great 

 horse, they thundered neck and neck around 

 the rail and started neck and neck down the 

 home stretch, with not so m.uch room between 

 the tips of their noses as would show daylight. 

 Yet, Man-o'-War won. Speedier? Perhaps. 

 More likely he was merely the stouter-hearted. 



Well, I have the class — the stout heart. 

 Never yet have I become fractious or excitable 

 in the paddock before a race. Never have I 

 gone on the track that I did not come to the 



—41- 



