of the farmer jockey, bound to try the speed of the colt he has raised against that of the other contestants in the race. Here come a pair of rustic lovers in a trim farm-wagon newly varnished for the occasion. They have a stout plough-horse, whose speed the unwary youth pits against that of the slender steed of a city shopman who, with a horse and chaise hired for the occasion, is bringing the lady of his choice out to the Fair. The city horse is a nervous, light-limbed creature, which at a touch of the whip springs forward into a swift gait, his fleet hoofs tossing the dust into the face of the discomfited farmer, who is soon left far behind. In the hour of defeat it is little comfort for him to reflect that had the race-course been a field, the vehicle a harrow, the results would have been very different.
From her favorite seat, high up in the arms of a giant apple-tree, Margaret watches the line of wagons and wayfarers passing down the high road that bounds the orchard. She looks with careless interest at the farmers and their wives, at the townspeople and the gentlefolk, as they pass on their way to the Fair, her eyes always reverting to a point in the road where the first glimpse of a carriage returning from the station may be had. At last! There are the grays, behind them her father, a fearless driver, and at
