The mare Alix breaks the world’s trotting record one day.

I see her heels flash down the dust of an Illinois race

track on a summer afternoon. I see the timekeepers

put their heads together over stop-watches, and call

to the grand stand a split second is clipped off the old

world’s record and a new world’s record fixed.

I see the mare Alix led away by men in undershirts and

streaked faces. Dripping Alix in foam of white on

the harness and shafts. And the men in undershirts

kiss her ears and rub her nose, and tie blankets on

her, and take her away to have the sweat sponged.

I see the grand stand jammed with prairie people yelling

themselves hoarse. Almost the grand stand and the

crowd of thousands are one pair of legs and one voice

standing up and yelling hurrah.

I see the driver of Alix and the owner smothered in a fury

of handshakes, a mob of caresses. I see the wives of

the driver and owner smothered in a crush of white

summer dresses and parasols.

Hours later, at sundown, gray dew creeping on the sod and sheds, I see Alix again:

And I want to rub my nose against the nose of the mare Alix.