第113章 Southern Sports(3)

The oaks shook off long tresses of their mossy beards to the tugging of the wind,and the bayou in its ambition put on miniature waves in mocking of much larger bodies of water.A lull permitted a start,and homewards we steamed,an inky sky overhead and a heavy wind blowing.

As darkness crept on,there were few on board who did not wish themselves nearer home.'

There is nothing the matter with that.It is good deion,compactly put.Yet there was great temptation,there,to drop into lurid writing.

But let us return to the mule.Since I left him,I have rummaged around and found a full report of the race.In it I find confirmation of the theory which I broached just now--namely,that the trouble with the Southern reporter is Women:Women,supplemented by Walter Scott and his knights and beauty and chivalry,and so on.

This is an excellent report,as long as the women stay out of it.

But when they intrude,we have this frantic result--'It will be probably a long time before the ladies' stand presents such a sea of foam-like loveliness as it did yesterday.The New Orleans women are always charming,but never so much so as at this time of the year,when.in their dainty spring costumes they bring with them a breath of balmy freshness and an odor of sanctity unspeakable.

The stand was so crowded with them that,walking at their feet and seeing no possibility of approach,many a man appreciated as he never did before the Peri's feeling at the Gates of Paradise,and wondered what was the priceless boon that would admit him to their sacred presence.Sparkling on their white-robed breasts or shoulders were the colors of their favorite knights,and were it not for the fact that the doughty heroes appeared on unromantic mules,it would have been easy to imagine one of King Arthur's gala-days.'

There were thirteen mules in the first heat;all sorts of mules,they were;all sorts of complexions,gaits,dispositions,aspects.

Some were handsome creatures,some were not;some were sleek,some hadn't had their fur brushed lately;some were innocently gay and frisky;some were full of malice and all unrighteousness;guessing from looks,some of them thought the matter on hand was war,some thought it was a lark,the rest took it for a religious occasion.

And each mule acted according to his convictions.The result was an absence of harmony well compensated by a conspicuous presence of variety--variety of a picturesque and entertaining sort.

All the riders were young gentlemen in fashionable society.

If the reader has been wondering why it is that the ladies of New Orleans attend so humble an orgy as a mule-race,the thing is explained now.

It is a fashion-freak;all connected with it are people of fashion.

It is great fun,and cordially liked.The mule-race is one of the marked occasions of the year.It has brought some pretty fast mules to the front.

One of these had to be ruled out,because he was so fast that he turned the thing into a one-mule contest,and robbed it of one of its best features--variety.But every now and then somebody disguises him with a new name and a new complexion,and rings him in again.

The riders dress in full jockey costumes of bright-colored silks,satins,and velvets.

The thirteen mules got away in a body,after a couple of false starts,and scampered off with prodigious spirit.

As each mule and each rider had a distinct opinion of his own as to how the race ought to be run,and which side of the track was best in certain circumstances,and how often the track ought to be crossed,and when a collision ought to be accomplished,and when it ought to be avoided,these twenty-six conflicting opinions created a most fantastic and picturesque confusion,and the resulting spectacle was killingly comical.

Mile heat;time 2:22.Eight of the thirteen mules distanced.

I had a bet on a mule which would have won if the procession had been reversed.The second heat was good fun;and so was the 'consolation race for beaten mules,'which followed later;but the first heat was the best in that respect.

I think that much the most enjoyable of all races is a steamboat race;but,next to that,I prefer the gay and joyous mule-rush.Two red-hot steamboats raging along,neck-and-neck,straining every nerve--that is to say,every rivet in the boilers--quaking and shaking and groaning from stem to stern,spouting white steam from the pipes,pouring black smoke from the chimneys,raining down sparks,parting the river into long breaks of hissing foam--this is sport that makes a body's very liver curl with enjoyment.

A horse-race is pretty tame and colorless in comparison.

Still,a horse-race might be well enough,in its way,perhaps,if it were not for the tiresome false starts.

But then,nobody is ever killed.At least,nobody was ever killed when I was at a horse-race.They have been crippled,it is true;but this is little to the purpose.