POETRY
THE LAST HORSE (It is said that Winter comes in on the tail of the last St. Leger Horse.) AUTUMN'S clipped her golden tresses, And the Paddock's gay with dresses Frills and lace and furbelows.
Never mind if Summer's dying,
You have backed a horse that's trying Tipped you by a man who knows I
Certain to be placed —a stayer. Bright September seems the gayer, Genial and debonair.
Ribbons, petals, swirling laces Lightly flutter, and the faces Surely never were so fair.
Doncaster's the best of courses, Now they're off—a blur of horses I But they've left him at the post ; And your Winner-Tryer-Sprinter Turns to welcome in the Winter— Turns, a cheery jocund host I There's no profit in abuses,
But your luck the very deuce is ;
He's to carry double weight.
Perched behind the boy, who rides him, Now an icy form bestrides him, As he swerves into the Straight.
Little wander that he tarries, Crippled by the load he carries ; Yet you half believe it true— That a shadow, nodding greeting From a horse this Autumn Meeting Promises good luck to you.
Summer fades and Autumn passes As her dead leaves, through the grasses. Though he pulled the horse you backed, Winter yet will bring redressing,
Cheer you with his bracing blessing, And a glory Summer lacked.
BARBARA EUPEAN TODD.
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