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Let him in! It's fair!" But others felt outraged and shouted back: "No put him out! Put him out!" The starting judge clanged his bell again, and the other three starters came up. Flecker, good-natured and fat, his horse in a warming-up foam, laughed till he swayed in the sulky. Col. Troup, dignified and reserved, said nothing. But Travis swore. "It's preposterous! it will make the race a farce.
As the race was best three out of five, one more heat meant that Flecker of Tennessee would win the race and the purse. But when the old man glanced at Trumps, his experienced eye told him the gallant gelding was all out he was distressed greatly in a paroxyism of thumps. He glanced at Lizzette. She was breathing freely and was fresh. His heart fell.
And the funniest thing! two balls of cotton flew out of his ears, one hitting Flecker of Tennessee on the nose, the other Colonel Troup in the eye. "By Gad, sah," drawled Colonel Troup, "but now, I see. I thought he cudn't ah been made of flesh an' blood, sah, why damme he's made of cotton! An' you saved my money, old man, an' that damned rascal's name by that trick?
Troup, Flecker and me, have put up a thousand three heats out of five the winner takes the stake. Col. Troup, of Lenox, has entered a fast mare of his, and Flecker, of Tennessee, will be there with his gelding. I know Flecker's horse. I could beat him with Lizette and one of her legs tied up. I looked him over last week. Contracted heels and his owner hasn't got horse-sense to know it.
He had published four books of verse and four books of prose, leaving many poems, essays, short stories, and two plays, in manuscript. All his best poetry is now included in the Collected Poems . Flecker had the Tennysonian habit of continually revising; and in this volume we are permitted to see some of the interesting results of the process.
Fools that we were! We've cut each other to pieces like a pair of cats tied by the tails. Travis is at your mercy." "Yes, sah, Flecker is right. Travis is yo' meat, sah," said the Colonel, solemnly. The old man walked around with his lips moving silently, and a great pulsing, bursting, gripping pain in his heart a pain which was half a hope and half despair. The crowd was on tip-toe.
"Oh, say, I thought you were going to say twenty," laughed Flecker. Some rowdy had crowded around the old cart and attempted to unscrew the axle tap. But some one reached over the head of the crowd and gripped him where his shoulder and arm met, and pulled him forward and twirled him around like a top. It was enough. It was ten minutes before he could lift up his arm at all; it felt dead.
Could I but steal that awful throne Ablaze with dreams and songs and stars Where sits Night, a man of stone, On the frozen mountain spars I'd cast him down, for he is old, And set my Lady there to rule, Gowned with silver, crowned with gold, And in her eyes the forest pool. It seems to me improbable that Flecker will be forgotten; he was a real poet.
De La Mare's talent his verses written for and about children. There is a picture for each poem, and the combination demands and will obtain an unconditional surrender. If the poetry of James Flecker and Walter De La Mare live after them, it will not be because of sensational qualities, in matter or in manner.
"We were all aligned but the old pacer why didn't you let us go?" "Because I am starting these horses by the rules, Mr. Travis. I know my business," said the starter hotly. Col. Troup was blue in the face with rage. Flecker laughed. They all turned again and came down, the numbers on the drivers' arms showing 1, 2, 3, 4 Travis, Troup, Flecker, and the old Bishop, respectively.
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