Chapter 23

Late in August Uncle Eb and I took our Black Hawk stallion to the
fair in Hillsborough and showed him for a prize. He was fit for the
eye of a king when we had finished grooming him, that morning,
and led him out, rearing in play, his eyes flashing from under his
broad plume, so that all might have a last look at him. His arched
neck and slim barrel glowed like satin as the sunlight fell upon
him. His black mane flew, he shook the ground with his hoofs
playing at the halter's end. He hated a harness and once in it lost
half his conceit. But he was vainest of all things in Faraway when
we drove off with him that morning.

All roads led to Hillsborough fair time. Up and down the long hills
we went on a stiff jog passing lumber wagons with generations
enough in them to make a respectable genealogy, the old people in
chairs; light wagons that carried young men and their sweethearts,
backswoodsmen coming out in ancient vehicles upon reeling,
creaking wheels to get food for a year's reflection - all thickening
the haze of the late summer with the dust of the roads. And
Hillsborough itself was black with people. The shouts of excited
men, the neighing of horses, the bellowing of cattle, the wailing of
infants, the howling of vendors, the pressing crowd, had begun to
sow the seed of misery in the minds of those accustomed only to
the peaceful quietude of the farm. The staring eye, the palpitating
heart, the aching head, were successive stages in the doom of
many. The fair had its floral hall carpeted with sawdust and
redolent of cedar, its dairy house, its mechanics' hall sacred to
farming implements, its long sheds full of sheep and cattle, its
dining-hall, its temporary booths of rough lumber, its half-mile
track and grandstand. Here voices of beast and vendor mingled in a
chorus of cupidity and distress. In Floral Hall Sol Rollin was on
exhibition. He gave me a cold nod, his lips set for a tune as yet
inaudible. He was surveying sundry examples of rustic art that
hung on the circular railing of the gallery and trying to preserve
a calm breast. He was looking at Susan Baker's painted cow that
hung near us.

'Very descriptive,' he said when I pressed him for his notion of it.
'Rod Baker's sister Susan made thet cow. Gits tew dollars an' fifty
cents every fair time - wish I was dewin 's well.'

'That's one of the most profitable cows in this country,' I said.

'Looks a good deal like a new breed.'

'Yes,' he answered soberly, then he set his lips, threw a sweeping
glance into the gallery, and passed on.

Susan Baker's cow was one of the permanent features of the
county fair, and was indeed a curiosity not less remarkable than
the sacred ox of Mr Barnum.

Here also I