Ten horses would strive for the prize--a big field, and the
pace would be killing.
From the West came Sweet Silver, a gray, gallant, and
fearless in jumping.
A rakish old nag who walked over the sticks, had been sent
for the Cup from Kentucky;
On a bay, Little Jack, who was fast, they had put but a
hundred and thirty.
But I knew that North Star, a big brown--even the Black was
no gamer-
With a pull of ten pounds in the weight, was almost a match
for Crusader.
We made a brave troop, long-striding and strong, with the
pick of cross-country riders,
As we filed past the Stand in stately parade, with its
thousands of eager admirers,
And down to the turn on the lower far side, where a red flag
was flicking the sunlight;
For twice we must circle the green-swarded field, and finish
close under the paddock.