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Literary Lapses
·
Stephen Leacock
129
I
cannot
honestly
deny
that
it
takes
a
good
deal
of
physical
courage
to
ride
a
horse.
This,
however,
I
have.
I
get
it
at
about
forty
cents
a
flask,
and
take
it
as
required.
I
find
that
in
riding
a
horse
up
the
long
street
of
a
country
town,
it
is
not
well
to
proceed
at
a
trot.
It
excites
unkindly
comment.
It
is
better
to
let
the
horse
walk
the
whole
distance.
This
may
be
made
to
seem
natural
by
turning
half
round
in
the
saddle
with
the
hand
on
the
horse's
back,
and
gazing
intently
about
two
miles
up
the
road.
It
then
appears
that
you
are
the
first
in
of
about
fourteen
men.
Since
learning
to
ride,
I
have
taken
to
noticing
the
things
that
people
do
on
horseback
in
books.
Some
of
these
I
can
manage,
but
most
of
them
are
entirely
beyond
me.
Here,
for
instance,
is
a
form
of
equestrian
performance
that
every
reader
will
recognize
and
for
which
I
have
only
a
despairing
admiration:
"With
a
hasty
gesture
of
farewell,
the
rider
set
spurs
to
his
horse
and
disappeared
in
a
cloud
of
dust."
With
a
little
practice
in
the
matter
of
adjustment,
I
think
I
could
set
spurs
to
any
size
of
horse,
but
I
could
never
disappear
in
a
cloud
of
dust--at
least,
not
with
any
guarantee
of
remaining
disappeared
when
the
dust
cleared
away.
Here,
however,
is
one
that
I
certainly
can
do:
"The
bridle-rein
dropped
from
Lord
Everard's
listless
hand,
and,
with
his
head
bowed
upon
his
bosom,
he
suffered
his
horse
to
move
at
a
foot's
pace
up
the
sombre
avenue.
Deep
in
thought,
he
heeded
not
the
movement
of
the
steed
which
bore
him."
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