The lusty undergraduates of both
sides of Anglo-Saxondom escort it unresistingly down from its airy halls
to the blue bosom of the Schuylkill, while "teams" picked from eighty
English-speaking millions beckon it across the Jerseys to Creedmoor. And
the horse--is he to call in vain? Is a strait-laced negative from the
Commission to echo back his neigh? Is the blood of Eclipse and Godolphin
to stagnate under a ticket in "Class 630, horses, asses and mules"? Why,
the very ponies in front of Memorial Hall pull with extra vim against
their virago jockeys and flap their little brass wings in indignation at
the thought. The thoroughbred will be heard from, and the judges that
sit on him will be "experts in their department."
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF COOK'S WORLD'S TICKET-OFFICE.]
Another specimen of the desert-born, the Western Indian, forms an
exhibit as little suited as the improved Arab horse to discussion and
award at a session fraught with that "calm contemplation and poetic
ease" which ought to mark the deliberations of the judges. How are the
representatives of fifty-three tribes to be put through their paces?
These poor fragments of the ancient population of the Union have, if we
exclude the Cherokees and Choctaws and two or three of the Gila tribes,
literally nothing to show. The latter can present us with a faint trace
of the long-faded civilization of their Aztec kindred, while the former
have only borrowed a few of the rudest arts of the white, and are
protected from extinction merely by the barrier of a frontier more and
more violently assailed each year by the speculator and the settler, and
already passed by the railway.
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