rie is that you always seem to be in the middle of it. The garden
of Time and Chance, it has no parts or passions unless, indeed, its
spaces seem unfriendly. It has no mystery, no changeability, no
complexity.... But all this is digressing from the races and from the
beautifully dressed women who look like tall-stemmed flowers. I heard
a man in the next box compute that the feathers worn in the enclosure
had cost a hundred thousand dollars, but no matter what they cost they
were worth it--willow plumes, fish-spines, aigettes, birds-of-paradise,
ostrich mounts, ospreys, and other things I cannot name. Indeed, my
own hat has two bright scarlet wings which cause me no small
satisfaction, in spite of the fact that John says they are not so much
wings as a challenge to combat. Moreover, he says when I am better
civilized, I will know that feathers of any kind are an atavism and no
fit dress for Christian people. It is trying to have a near relative
with such views. The younger men of the enclosure affect Newmarket
coats, or Burberry's, and cloth spats, also field-glasses swung across
their shoulders. They express horse-language emphatically without a
word. The older men who have attained to the dignity of the Bench or
the Cabinet, run to silk hats and frock coats.

The enclosure is occupied by the favoured few who have boxes and who
are designed by the Grand Stand as "the society bunch." I would like
to write about this distinction, and sometime I will, but just now the
three-year olds are cavorting down the great white-way, for the autumn
cup which has $2500.00 tucked away in its inside. It is on Star
Charter that I have my hard-earned western dollars--egg and butter
money, mind you--and I must pay strict attention to this race. I think
he'll win. The Lord never gave him those legs and that frictionless
gait for nothing. I'm sure of that.

The horses do not mind their manners at the starting bar, but pick
objections, prance, and kick each other with the most admirable
precision. I have read that when the Otaheitans first saw a horse they
called it "a man-carrying pig." It is not possible to improve on the
definition.

But, after awhile, the horses make a clean break from the bar and are
off in a spume of dust. Gallant-goers they are, and this is sure to be
a tight race. Their necks are strained like teal on the wing, and
almost you expect to hear a sharp shot and see one tumble. Indeed,
they might be