My Dear Sir: In one of your issues you say that “in 1816 Maria, at Lexington, Ky., beat Robin Grey.” My maternal grandfather, Benjamin Hieronymous, of Clarke County, Ky., was Robin Grey’s original owner (owned his dam, of course), and slept all night in the stall with her the night little Robin was foaled, March, 1804—such glowing visions inspired him of the coming prodigy. Hence, if Maria beat Robin Grey in 1816, it was when Robin was twelve years old. But there must be some mistake about it. If reliance can be placed on tradition, it was the boast of my grandfather to the day of his death, June, 1859, when in his ninetieth year, that Robin Grey won every race, from one-quarter to four miles, that he ever entered. In boyhood I read the worn copy of a famous placard, of which this is the substance: “Captain Cook’s celebrated ‘Whip’ challenges any horse, mare or gelding to run any distance, from one-quarter to four miles, barring Robin Grey.” Captain Cook was a Virginian, and owned, I think, a famous mare, “Fanny,” or I may have the names mixed, and give my early impressions. For more than fifty years the children and grandchildren of the grand old man were raised on Robin Grey. No man ever idolized the genus horse as he did—not General Jackson, nor Hanie, nor Bailie Peyton. I fear he was really a crank on the subject of the horse, and Robin Grey was his prophet. Two gentlemen were once visiting his paddock, when one of them (perhaps in a spirit of fun) discredited a pet of its owner. Quick as a flash the critic went down. In a moment the assailant was penitent, led the victim tenderly to the house, washed the crimson from his face, saying: “I’m sorry—I’m—so sorry! But you oughtn’t to insult my horses. There now; it’s all over!” Better offend him personally a thousand times than to insult his horses. It was at the old Lexington race track. Robin Grey was there, and his owner, also, of course. “Hurry up, Mr. Hieronymous! The other horses are about ready to start,” the judges called. “Go ahead, gentlemen, whenever you like,” replied the enthusiast, “a quarter or a half minute, or such a matter, doesn’t make the least difference to Robin Grey. He’ll be in at the home stretch.” I could relate, if you had the patience to read, many amusing and, to me, at least, thrilling stories of Robin Grey. Mr. Hieronymous sold a half interest in him to Col. John Hunt, grandfather of the afterwards famed cavalry leader, Gen. John Hunt Morgan, such were the exigencies of security debts. But the old man never loved a child more devotedly than he loved Robin Grey.