common
attraction at a county fair. Usually the object in racing horses is to
exhibit speed; but the "slow race" is for the slowest horse--the one
which is longest in hobbling a mile. To prevent cheating, no one is
allowed to drive his own horse; if he enters for the race he must drive
a horse that has been entered by another person. Of course, under such
conditions each man drives over the track as quickly as he can, since it
is for his interest to do so. The "purse," or prize, at the Fair that
fall was ten dollars; that is to say, the man who entered the slowest
old skeleton of a horse, received ten dollars, together with the cheers
and jeers of the crowd. Public sentiment is now more humane and
wholesome.

What Thomas and I had in view was the ten dollars; and we did not
believe there was a horse in the county that could beat our old
"Ponkus" at going slow.

There were no restrictions in the race. Anybody who had a horse was at
liberty to enter him for it. The time set for the race was four o'clock
in the afternoon. A little before that hour, Thomas drove Ponkus on to
the track, in an old "thoroughbrace" wagon.

We found that as many as twelve different horses (or wrecks of horses)
had been entered for the race. It was an odd and venerable-looking troop
that drew up near the judge's stand, which was to be the starting point.

There was one horse with the "spring halt" in both hind legs, and he
lifted his feet nearly a yard high at every step. There was another with
three "spavins" and a "ring-bone" on the remaining leg. Still another
had the "heaves" so badly that its breathing could be heard twenty rods
away. In fact, every one had some ailment or defect. The agents of the
Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals had not yet made their
way into our locality.

The owners surveyed the rival nags with a critical eye. The bystanders
laughed and made bets. The horse with the "spring halt," that lifted
both hind legs so high, was the popular favorite at first. But soon a
fresh roar from the crowd told of the approach of another "racer."

A tin-peddler, with his cart and great bags of paper-rags on top, came
in. The first glimpse of the peddler's horse sent dismay to the rest of
us. Besides being utterly stiff-kneed and knock-kneed, it was really
nothing but a moving skeleton. Its hair looked as dead as that on a
South American cow-hide, and nearly every bone in its frame might have
been counted.

The crow