ALIX
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HE mare Alix breaks the world’s trotting record oneday. I see her heels flash down the dust of anIllinois race track on a summer afternoon. I seethe timekeepers put their heads together over stop-watches, and call to the grand stand a split secondis clipped off the old world’s record and a newworld’s record fixed. I see the mare Alix led away by men in undershirts andstreaked faces. Dripping Alix in foam of white onthe harness and shafts. And the men in undershirtskiss her ears and rub her nose, and tie blankets onher, and take her away to have the sweat sponged. I see the grand stand jammed with prairie people yellingthemselves hoarse. Almost the grand stand and thecrowd of thousands are one pair of legs and onevoice standing up and yelling hurrah. I see the driver of Alix and the owner smothered in afury of handshakes, a mob of caresses. I see thewives of the driver and owner smothered in a crushof white summer dresses and parasols. Hours later, at sundown, gray dew creeping on the sodand sheds, I see Alix again:Dark, shining-velvet Alix,Night-sky Alix in a gray blanket,31 a2 Cornhuskers
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