The Louisiana Democrat., 1891-11-25

A flash and CLEAN Of color in the
dust cloud under the wire, and they
are gone again. But the pace is killing
now, the bunch is breaking apart, bot
tom, and endurance are beginning to
tell. One by one the weaker fall out
and drop to the rear, till now at the
last quarter only three are left in it,
at all. Down the stretch they come,
whip, hand and spur, distended nos.
trils and eyes bulging from the sock
cts. Big Tom crowding the pole and
coming like whirlwind; he rushed 10y
the gray filly and the favorite nowhere,
away back in the rear.
Close by the railing on the grand
stand is the mother, with the wind
tossing her neglected hair about her
face, her hands clasped over her breast,
and her eyes strained on the flying
horses. If an eye had noted her in that
breathless time they would probably
have wondered at her rapt excitement
But they never kne w the mother love
or fear that struggled in that throb-
bing heart or saw it in the fire OF
those staring eyes, as her boy, her
baby, dashes under the wire.
Colt, you've got it this time, hit him
again, my moneys on the favorite aud
she's nowhere"
big Tom, Artie Collins mount, wins
by a neck" reads the judge, and the
great event, the midsummer derby, is
over
Is it quiet now? A thousand voices
blend in one mighty cheer as the win.
ner and his rider come slowly back,
reeking and reeling from the race. A
thousand gaudy .kerchiefs wave them
welcome. Where is the favorite now?
The idol of the morning is now down
in the dust and another installed in its
stead. And they cheer themselves
hoarse anew over the new favorite, and
almost carry horse and ri der from the
track.
With pale, bloodless face, and limbs
that will hardly sustain him when
helped to the ground, the boy staggers
into the stall where the mother has
returned to await him. With cry her
outstretched arms receive him just as
his strength is gone and he totters to
fall
''There, ma, we done it, didn't we?''
he faltered. "Old Tom won the derby
and amt John happy now? We won't
have to race any more now, will we,
mother? Never have to ride again.
Oh, am so glad, for I was afraid to-
day Yes, mother, I was, that l would
never get through that race. But did,
mother, didn't I?''
THANK God for that, too, my boy"
she whispered, as she caressed the
flushed forehead
And won't we be happy, then, you
and and John, now old Tom has paid
the mortgage on the farm again. You
won't be tired and sick, then and
his voice faltered and flood OF crimson
blood gushed from his lips.
Some great artery overcharged and
overtaxed in the excitement had sue
cumbed, and now ere help could come
it was too late. Yes, brave boy, you
have backed your last mount and won
your last race You will never ride more
save to cross the dark valley.
While the gay throng outside chaffed
and cheered and sang praises of the
new favorite, he lay in the broken
hearted mothers arms and watched
the ebbing of his life tide.
Don t cry, mother dear, l am going
to see father now and little brother.
Tell John good-by, mother, when he
comes, and tell him to be good to old
Tom and-it's-it's SO dark, mother,
draw me closer, yet, and kiss me good
by
The head dropped and the little tired
form quivered-the rider boy was dead.
Joe Brentwood, in Western Rural.