You want to have it all brought back to you, the big, big
race-track which, as you remember it now, must have been about the
next size smaller than the earth's orbit around the sun. You want
me to tell about the old farmer with the bunch of timothy whiskers
under his chin that gets his old jingling wagon on the track just
before a heat is to be trotted, and all the people yell at him:
"Take him out!" You want me to tell how the trotters looked walking
around in their dusters, with the eye-holes bound with red braid,
and how the drivers of the sulkies sat with the tails of their
horses tucked under one leg. Well, I'm not going to do anything of
the kind, and if you don't like it, you can go to the box-office
and demand your money back. I hope you'll get it. First place,
I don't know anything about racing, and consequently I don't believe
it's a good thing for the country. All I know is, that some horses
can go faster than others, but which are the fastest ones I can't
tell by the looks, though I have tried several times . . . . I did
not walk back. I bought a round-trip ticket. They will tell you
that these events at the County Fair tend to improve the breed of
horses. So they do - of fast horses. But the fast horses are no
good. They can't any of them go as fast as a nickel trolley-car
when it gets out where there aren't any houses.
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