They did not seem to know him, did not seem to know what to make of him, and he stared at them wondering. He did not think of his white shirt front, his sudden arising, the darkness, their excitement. Surely they would know, in a moment more. Wheeling, flaring their wet nostrils, throwing up their manes, striking the earth in a quandary, they came on, whinnied faintly, and he knew what it was to be afraid. He had never been afraid and he went down on his knees. With a new horror in his heart he damned them. He turned his eyes up, but he could not open them. He thought rapidly, calling on Freda in his heart, speaking tenderly, promising. A flare of heat passed his throat, and descended into his bosom. "I want to live. I can do it--damn it--I can do it. I can forge ahead, make my mark." He forgot where he was for a moment and found new pleasure in this spoken admission, this new rebellion. He moved with the faint shaking of the earth like a child on a woman's lap. The upraised hoofs of the first horse missed him, but the second did not. And presently the horses drew apart, nibbling here and there, switching their tails, avoiding a patch of tall grass. LONG, LONG AGO[6] [Note 6: Copyright, 1919, by The Bellman Company. Copyright, 1920, by Frederick Orin Bartlett.] BY FREDERICK ORIN BARTLETT From _The Bellman_ When the brakeman swung back the door and with resonant indifference shouted in Esperanto "Granderantal stashun," Galbraithe felt like jumping up and shaking the man's hand. It was five years since he had heard that name pronounced as it should be pronounced because it was just five years since he had resigned from the staff of a certain New York daily and left to accept the editorship of a Kansas weekly. These last years had been big years, full of the joy of hard work, and though they had left him younger than when he went they had been five years away from New York. Now he was back again for a brief vacation, eager for a sight of the old crowd.