And then we had to watch for his return, Craning our necks to see if we could learn, Before he entered, what the week had been. Now I shall look on such another scene Of waiting on the race-chance. For to-day, Just as I did with Father, I shall say "Yes, he'll be beaten by a head, or break A stirrup leather at the wall, or take The brook too slow, and, then, all will be lost." Daily, in mind, I saw the Winning Post, The Straight, and all the horses' glimmering forms Rushing between the railings' yelling swarms, My Father's colours leading. Every day, Closing my eyes, I saw them die away, In the last strides, and lose, lose by a neck, Lose by an inch, but lose, and bring the wreck A day's march nearer. Now begins again The agony of waiting for the pain. The agony of watching ruin come Out of man's dreams to overwhelm a home. Go now, my dear. Before the race is due, We'll meet again, and then I'll speak with you. In a race-course box behind the Stand Right Royal shone from a strapper's hand. A big dark bay with a restless tread, Fetlock deep in a wheat-straw bed; A noble horse of a nervy blood, By O Mon Roi out of Rectitude Something quick in his eye and ear Gave a hint that he might be queer. In front, he was all to a horseman's mind, Some thought him a trifle light behind. By two good points might his rank be known, A beautiful head and a Jumping Bone. He had been the hope of Sir Button Budd, Who bred him there at the Fletchings stud, But the Fletchings jockey had flogged him cold In a narrow thing as a two-year-old. After that, with his sulks and swerves, Dread of the crowd and fits of nerves, Like a wastrel bee who makes no honey He had hardly earned his entry money. Liking him still, though he failed at racing, Sir Button trained him for steeple-chasing. He jumped like a stag, but his heart was cowed; Nothing would make him face the crowd; When he reached the Straight where the crowds began He would make no effort for any man. Sir Button sold him, Charles Cothill bought him, Rode him to hounds and soothed and taught him. After two years' care Charles felt assured That his horse's broken heart was cured, And the jangled nerves in tune again. And now, as proud as a King of Spain, He moved in his box with a restless tread, His eyes like sparks in his lovely head, Ready to run between the roar Of the stands that face the Straight once more; Ready to race, though blown, though beat, As long as his will could lift his feet, Ready to burst his heart to pass Each gasping horse in that street of grass. John Harding said to his stable-boy,