Of an Ethical Discussion, Which the Reader is Advised to Skip

Oho! for the rush of wind in the hair, for the rolling thunder of
galloping hoofs, now echoing on the hard, white road, now muffled in
dewy grass.

Oho! for the horse and his rider and the glory of them; for the long,
swinging stride that makes nothing of distance, for the tireless
spring of the powerful loins, for the masterful hand on the bridle,
strong, yet gentle as a caress, for the firm seat--the balance and
sway that is an aid to speed, and proves the born rider. And what
horse should this be but Four-legs, his black coat glossy and
shining in the sun, his great, round hoofs spurning the flying earth,
all a-quiver with high courage, with life and the joy of it? And who
should be the rider but young Barnabas?

He rides with his hat in his whip-hand, that he may feel the wind,
and with never a look behind, for birds are carolling from the cool
freshness of dewy wood and copse, in every hedge and tree the young
sun has set a myriad gems flashing and sparkling; while, out of the
green distance ahead, Love is calling; brooks babble of it, birds
sing of it, the very leaves find each a small, soft voice to whisper
of it.

So away--away rides Barnabas by village green and lonely cot, past
hedge and gate and barn, up hill and down hill,--away from the dirt
and noise of London, away from its joys and sorrows, its splendors
and its miseries, and from the oncoming, engulfing shadow. Spur and
gallop, Barnabas,--ride, youth, ride! for the shadow has already
touched you, even as the madman said.