HORSES and FASHION.

THE LEGEND OF THE HORSESHOE. by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
WHAT time our Lord still walk'd the earth,
Unknown, despised, of humble birth,
And on Him many a youth attended
(His words they seldom comprehended),
It ever seem'd to Him most meet
To hold His court in open street,
As under heaven's broad canopy
One speaks with greater liberty.
The teachings of His blessed word
From out His holy mouth were heard;
Each market to a fane turn'd He
With parable and simile.

One day, as tow'rd a town He roved,
In peace of mind with those He loved,
Upon the path a something gleam'd;
A broken horseshoe 'twas, it seem'd.
So to St. Peter thus He spake:
"That piece of iron prythee take!"
St. Peter's thoughts had gone astray,--
He had been musing on his way
Respecting the world's government,
A dream that always gives content,
For in the head 'tis check'd by nought;
This ever was his dearest thought,
For him this prize was far too mean
Had it a crown and sceptre been!
But, surely, 'twasn't worth the trouble
For half a horseshoe to bend double!
And so he turn'd away his head,
As if he heard not what was said,

The Lord, forbearing tow'rd all men,
Himself pick'd up the horseshoe then
(He ne'er again like this stoop'd down).
And when at length they reach'd the town,
Before a smithy He remain'd,
And there a penny for 't obtain'd.
As they the market-place went by,
Some beauteous cherries caught His eye:
Accordingly He bought as many
As could be purchased for a penny,
And then, as oft His wont had been,
Placed them within His sleeve unseen.

They went out by another gate,
O'er plains and fields proceeding straight,
No house or tree was near the spot,
The sun was bright, the day was hot;
In short, the weather being such,
A draught of water was worth much.
The Lord walk'd on before them all,
And let, unseen, a cherry fall.
St. Peter rush'd to seize it hold,
As though an apple 'twere of gold;
His palate much approv'd the berry;
The Lord ere long another cherry
Once more let fall upon the plain;
St. Peter forthwith stoop'd again.
The Lord kept making him thus bend
To pick up cherries without end.
For a long time the thing went on;
The Lord then said, in cheerful tone:
"Had'st thou but moved when thou wert bid,
Thou of this trouble had'st been rid;
The man who small things scorns, will next,
By things still smaller be perplex'd."

1797.

A DAY AT THE RACES.

A Day At The Races

by Robert VanderMolen

Robert VanderMolen

When you wake up after twelve hours

The stove is cold, there's ice in the water bucket

— clouds outside and snow, the noise of a crow,

The only sound; until your wife cries

From an upper bunk, Honey, I'd like some coffee.

Luther chuckles. I nod, excuse myself  for the men's room

Next to me stretches a teacher

Who once warned me not to get married

Too early. Elderly now, but having done well

In real estate as a second career. He says

Well, well, as if  he can't recall my name.

But buys me a drink and talks of  his wayward

Daughter. When he mentions her married last name

I tell him I have met her, but leave off at that    . . .

He squints like a badger. In my wife's family, he resumes,

After a jostling by a drunken salesman, there's a

Sort of stupid gene that runs through the whole outfit,

Being half  Finnish, half  Dutch — or maybe something

Cancelled something    . . .    I notice a protuberance, a small growth

At the edge of  his eye, hanging like a broken thread

I always thought, I say, your daughter had a charming

Personality. He hunches his shoulders. Waking to dread,

The debts of  dread — but I couldn't help him.

Neither did I want to. On the way out

I spot my first wife chatting with a small-time gangster —

She flutters a wave my way, a Victorian flutter