On the sportsman's track, adjoining ours on the west, national events took place. The race between Hopeful and Rarus was the most exciting of anything which ever took place in those days. About 60,000 people gathered to see the race.

The blooded Rarus was a tall six-year-old bay trotter of national fame, from Beldom Brothers' stock farm in California. Hopeful was a chubby little white pacer, from a farm on the New England hills. He was twenty-two years old, and had never been on a race track until that season.

Neither horse had ever lost a race, and while the press, from the Atlantic to the Rockies, leaned hopefully towards Hopeful, yet they seemed to think that he was overmatched.

The match was really a strife between the people and the sporting fraternity, for horse racing throughout the country had become demoralized to the extent that the gamblers seldom allowed the best horse to win. Therefore, all the people wanted to see the old farmer, with his handsome pet, win the race.

It was a delightful October day and not only did the whole city turn out, but thousands came in from the country, to witness the great national race which had long been advertised.

Rarus came out first, stepping lively around the mile course and speeding down past the grandstand, which brought forth applause, for all admired the Pacific Ranger, who had come to Chicago to win the laurels of the day.

When Hopeful came out and paced slowly up past the grandstand he looked one way and the other to those who applauded him with a sort of confident grin, but when he turned at the north end of the home stretch and let loose, the people just yelled and roared, while the women acted as though they would like to hug him in their arms.

When lots were chosen and Hopeful won the pole, there was another shout, but it was soon followed by a row in the judge's stand, as there seemed to be a misunderstanding as to who should call time, or give the word to go, but it was finally settled, and the horses appeared for probably the most exciting race ever pulled off on the American continent.

At the word "go" they were off and we all craned our necks as they shot around the south bend, Hopeful hugging the pole and Rarus laying on the wheel of his sulky. On the back stretch, Rarus pulled out endeavoring to pass, and our hearts were in our mouths, while the little mountaineer elevated his head a trifle and steadily held the big ranger on the hub until they came under the wire, Hopeful winner, first in three.

We were still uneasy, for the impression was prevalent that the blooded animal was a stayer, while Hopeful could not make the second mile as fast as the first, but he still held the pole, and we argued that if Rarus had done his best we were all right.

When they came out for the second heat we soon discovered that we were being jockeyed, for several times they came under the wire, neck and neck, and yet were called back by the starter, whose neck we wanted to wring, for we knew he was doing it to fuss, worry and tire our Hopeful.

The last time they were called back, Rarus turned sooner than usual, and before Hopeful could turn he was at full speed and came under the wire far ahead and got the word "go," which gave him time to swing in and take the pole.

A murmur seemed to stifle the friends of Hopeful as the horses swung into the back stretch, where we hoped to see the pacer try to pass, but he steadily hung on the hub, as he had done around the south bend, and continued this all the way around the north bend, when suddenly his driver pulled him out into the center of the home stretch, and the great race was on in dead earnest.

We had taken some ladies from the ground into our carriage, so they could see, while I stepped onto the tire of one wheel with my wife, Mary's hand on my neck to keep me from falling. In the excitement she gripped me so hard I can almost feel her hand now.

Our position near the judge's stand gave us a full view of the horses as they were coming, with Hopeful's head high and his knees far apart. For a few seconds the silence which seemed to reign was only broken by the seemingly far away sound of the horses' feet on the soft dirt, but soon those at the north started a cheer, which wildly broke along the throng like a wave, as Hopeful steadily poked his nose farther to the front until Rarus flew up into the air, when the news began flashing over the wires into the country that Hopeful had won.

Amid the cheers and yells, a ridiculous scene occurred which the reader should have witnessed to appreciate. Suddenly in the crowd nearby a gruff voice seemed uttering smothered oaths, while a woman shouted shrieks of terror, as she suddenly appeared above the throng sitting on the top of a man's head, he pawing with both hands to try to get her off, while she was struggling for release.

The cause of this strange episode took place something like this: He was a burly, cross-eyed Wolverine, from the tall pine tree country, who came down to bet his hard-earned money on the famous Pacific Coast trotter. During the excitement someone knocked his glasses off, and in order for the cross-eyed man to see to find them he had to put his face near to the ground. She, Mrs. Durgan, a little woman, it seems, when awfully tickled, was accustomed to spat her hands on her knees and run backwards while laughing. When she heard Hopeful had won, forgetting where she was, she indulged in her old habit of running backwards until she sat on his head.

When he felt her alight he sprang erect and, of course, not being able to see out or know what was happening, uttered a few excusable oaths. After the good-natured man had found his spectacles he looked pitifully at the woman, who was deluged in a flood of tears, and then turning to me smiled, as he said, "Didn't that beat hell?"

That was long, long ago. Should the recording angel call the roll today of those who were there that day, not one in ten would answer, and in a few years all will be silent. Where have they gone, and will they come again?