AERONAUTICS: At Laurel

Sad it is to see the courage go out of a horse, the fire die in him that made him swift, so that though he runs against equals in a valiant race and every flag is lifted for his triumph, his heart fails him in the hazard of his task, he falters and cannot win. It was a sad thing that happened, last week, at Laurel, Md. There Epinard was running ; the race, the Laurel Stakes; the distance, one mile; the prize, $10,000. He was a favorite among favorites, “for,” said the lean men who ride horses, the fat men who bet on them, “he is due* to win.”

In the parade before the race, the French four-year-old seemed lacklustre; there was a negligence under his sleek grace; and he needed a touch of the whip to bring him up to the barrier—a touch that made him sulky. Jockey Kummer, instead of Jockey Haynes, had the leg up and rode an adequate race except for that one rash touch. Away they went—a flash of silk, a huddle of bobbing heads at the turn, one, two, pulling away, animated toys all; then the stretch, the crowd ris-ing, a tatoo of hoofs—F. A. Burton’s Wise Counsellor first; second, Big Blaze; third, Sun Flag; fourth, Initiate; fifth, Epinard, limping, staggering. A quarter crack in his hoof, though bound that morning, had broken wide open; the pain had killed his spirit, made him lose for the fourth time. Lamed, he will race no more in the United States, said Trainer Leigh speaking for Owner Wertheimer.