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Reflections on Riding · Short Nonfiction Collection

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  Reflections on Writing from Literary Lapses by Stephen Lecock. This is a LibriVox recording.
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  All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to
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  volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. Read by Dale Grothmann. Reflections on
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  Writing by Stephen Leecock. The writing of this paper has been inspired by a
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  debate recently held at the Literary Society of my native town on the question resolved
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  that the bicycle is a nobler animal than the horse. In order to speak
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  for the negative with proper authority, I have spent some weeks in completely addicting
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  myself to the use of the horse. I find that the difference between the
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  horse and the bicycle is greater than I supposed. A horse is entirely covered
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  with hair. The bicycle is not entirely covered with hair, except the eighty
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  nine model they use an Idaho. In riding a horse, the performer finds
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  that the petals in which he puts his feet will not allow for a good
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  circular stroke. He will observe, however, that there is a saddle in
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  which, especially while the horse is trotting, he is expected to seat himself.
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  From time to time but it is simpler to ride standing up with the
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  feet in the petals. There are no handles to a horse, but the
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  nineteen ten model has a string on each side of its face for turning its
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  head when there is anything you want it to see. Coasting on a good
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  horse is superb, but should be under control. I have known a horse
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  to suddenly begin to coast with me about two miles from home, coast down
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  the main street of my native town at a terrific rate, and finally coast
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  through a platoon of Salvation Army into its livery stable. I cannot honestly deny
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  that it takes a good deal of physical courage to ride a horse. This,
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  however, I have. I get it at about forty cents a flask,
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  and take it as required. I find that in riding a horse up
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  a long street of a country town, it is not well to proceed at
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  a trot. It excites unkindly comment. It is better to let the horse
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  walk the whole distance. This may be made to seem natural by turning half
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  around in the saddle, with the hand on the horse's back, and gazing
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  intently about two miles up the road. It then appears that you are the
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  first in of about fourteen men. Since learning to ride, I have taken
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  to noticing the things people do on horseback in books. Some of these I
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  can manage, but most of them are entirely beyond me. Here, for
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  instance, is a form of equestrian performance that every reader will recognize, and
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  for which I have only a despairing admiration. With a hasty gesture of farewell,
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  the rider sets spurs to his horse and disappears in a cloud of dust.
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  With a little practice in the matter of adjustment, I think I could
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  set spurs to any size of horse, But I could never disappear in a
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  cloud of dust, at least not with any guarantee of remaining disappeared when the
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  dust clears away. Here, however, is one thing that I certainly can
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  do. The bridle rein dropped from Lord Everid's listless hand, and with his
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  head bowed upon his bosom, he suffered his horse to move at a foot's
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  pace up the Somber Avenue. Deep in thought, he heeded not the movement
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  of the steed which bore him. That is, he looked as if he
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  didn't. But in my case, Lord Everetd has his eye on the steed
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  pretty closely just the same this next I am doubtful about to horse to horse,
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  cried the Knight, and leapt into the saddle. I think I could
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  manage it if it read to horse, cried the Knight, and snatching a
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  step letder from the hands of his trusty attendant, he rushed into the saddle.
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  As a con including remark, I may mention that my experience of writing
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  has thrown a very interesting sidelight upon a rather puzzling point in history. It
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  is recorded of the famous Henry the Second that he was almost constantly in the
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  saddle, and of so restless a disposition that he never sat down, even
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  at meals. I had hitherto been unable to understand Henry's idea about his meals,
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  but I think I can appreciate it now. The end of Reflections on
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  Writing by Stephen Leacock