He Backed a Blamed Old Horse
The neighbors came a-nosing ’round and said the horse could trot
—He oughter up and killed him then, right there upon the spot;
A-killed him, yas, and tanned his hide and made it into boots,
Then worn ’em out a-kicking’round them neigh-
borly galoots
Who set the bee to buzzing under Ezry Booker’s hat,
And filled him up and chucked him full of non-
sense such as that
He’d got a hoss ’twas bound to make his ever-
lasting pile,
And what he got to do, of course, was handle him in style;
That he must bandage up his legs and figger on his feed,
And give him reg’lar exercise and work him out for speed.,
His knees, his neck, his breast, his thighs, the way he lugged his head,
And all his other symptoms looked to “speed,”
the neighbors said.
So Ezry he just sucked it in, as child-like as could be,
—It cost him thirteen dollars to look np the pedigree.
Then one day down to Laneses store he ribbled off a mess
Of names that struck your Uncle Dud as so much foolishness.
“I’ve traced him back,” so Ezry said, “to Mor-
gan blood ’nd Drew,”
To what’s-his-name and this and that, and which and t’other, too.
And Ezry banged the counter, just excited as could be,
A-arguing out the knots and kinks in that there pedigree.
Land sakes! He couldn’t seem to think of nothing but that plug:
—Neglected work, let slide his farm, went crazy as a bug.
But there! The neighbors stood around and said to go ahead,
And Ezra like a blamed old fool just swallowed all they said.
Ef they’d turned to and burned his barn ’twould been a prison crime,
But ’twould have been a better thing for Ezry ev’ry time.
He could have got insurance then, but ’twas a total loss
When they torched Ezry up to back
A Blamed
Old
Hoss!
Of course he had to put that horse in some good trainer’s hands,
And trainers, as the man who’s tried deereckly understands,
Ain’t driving just to take the air, for scenery or for health,
But sort of grab a feller’s leg and milk him for his wealth.
And there were blankets, straps, and girths, and bandages and boots;
Pnoomatic sulkies, pads, and shoes, and hoods and stable suits;
And lotions, too, and liniments—the best of hay and oats,
And Lord knows what of this and that for trot-
ters’ backs and throats!
Then came the entrance fees, of course, and travelling expense,
For Ezry lugged that trotter round, and didn’t have the sense
To know when he was fairly licked, but always would persist
That “that air hoss another year is going in the list!”
The trainer said he’d have him there; the neigh-
bors thought so, too;
So Ezry pulled his pocketbook and said he’d see him through.
So ’round the circuit went the hoss and, though
’tis sad to tell,
“The Flying Dutchman” didn’t fly—he never got a smell.
And when he’d come a-puffing in behind the whole blamed crowd
Then Ezry swore and shook his fist, and argued
’round, and vowed
That all the rest was down on him and had, without a doubt,
Just pooled together in a scheme to shut The
Dutchman out.
The driver said so, anyway, and then, you know, a few
Good neighbors took him out one side and said they thought so too.
And so—but land, it’s plain enough how Ezry’s money went
—He wound up his race-hoss career without a blasted cent.
What’s more, he ain’t the only one who’s sunk his little pot
In fubbing ’round from track to track with horses that can’t trot.
—He ain’t the only man in Maine whose ever-
lasting curse
Has been some darn-fool neighbors, and his itch to win a purse.
And, as I’ve said, if they’d turned to, and burnt his barn instead
Of cracking up that hoss so much and turning
Ezry’s head,
He could have got insurance then, but ’twas a total loss
When they torched Ezry up to back
A Blamed
Old
Hoss!