thus must Black Bess have rejoiced along the road to York. And
Bucephalus, skimming under Alexander the plains of Asia, must have had
just this glorious sense of freedom. Only less so! Not Pegasus himself
can have flown more swiftly. Pegasus, at last, became a constellation
in the sky. `Some day,' reflected the rocking-horse, when the ride was
over, `I, too, shall die; and five stars will appear on the nursery
ceiling.'

Alas for the vanity of equine ambition! I wonder by what stages this
poor beast came down in the world. Did the little boy's father go
bankrupt, leaving it to be sold in a `lot' with the other toys? Or was
it merely given away, when the little boy grew up, to a poor but
procreative relation, who anon became poorer? I should like to think
that it had been mourned. But I fear that whatever mourning there may
have been for it must have been long ago discarded. The creature did
not look as if it had been ridden in any recent decade. It looked as
if it had almost abandoned the hope of ever being ridden again. It was
but hoping against hope now, as it stood rocking there in the bleak
twilight. Bright warm nurseries were for younger, happier horses.
Still it went on rocking, to show me that it could rock.

The more sentimental a man is, the less is he helpful; the more loth
is he to cancel the cause of his emotion. I did not buy the horse.

A few days later, passing that way, I wished to renew my emotion; but
lo! the horse was gone. Had some finer person than I bought it?--towed
it to the haven where it would be? Likelier, it had but been relegated
to some mirky recess of the shop... I hope it has room to rock there.