Toohard
12-23-2011, 12:27 PM
Don't know the original origin of story but a man named Stanley Bergstein put in in US Hoofbeats before Christmas last year saying he'd only changed a few names in it.
Thought might be of interest. A merry and safe Christmas to the forum participants. May all your wishes and dreams come true next year! Cheers!!
The two great stallions sidled up to the gate. The place seemed familiar, yet somehow strange. The grass was greener than either had ever seen, when suddenly a stranger lumbered up and greeted them.
“Welcome,” the newcomer said.
“My name is Artsplace,” the first stallion said, “and this is…”
“I know,” said the homely bay who met them. “Western Hanover. I ought to know you both. I’m your great-great-great-great—I always lose count of the ‘greats’—but anyway, you’re both descendants of mine. Almost everybody here is. My name is Hambletonian.”
“Are you the gatekeeper?” Artsplace asked.
“Mostly,” Hambletonian replied. “I’m only on duty whenever one of my descendants is coming up. That’s all of the time, as far as harness horses are concerned. Eclipse takes care of most of the Thoroughbreds.”
“What is this place?” Western Hanover asked. “We must be lost.”
“It’s called The Green Place,” Hambletonian said. “Most of the horses that get lost come here. We have to send some back, of course.”
“Why?” Artsplace asked.
“Because they don’t belong here,” Hambletonian replied. “They didn’t race on heart alone, but on stuff pumped into them. The Big Guy didn’t blame them, but rather the people who trained and owned them—but he turned them back anyway.”
“Who’s The Big Guy?” Western Hanover asked.
“You’ll find out,” Hambletonian answered.
Then he lowered his muzzle and pushed the gate open.
“You might as well come in. You understand you’re on probation, though. The Big Guy makes his decisions about lost arrivals every Christmas. You won’t have long to wait.”
“I’ll bet the Big Guy is Messenger,” Artsplace said, as he moved inside the gate and gazed over the emerald-green expanses that seemed to stretch into infinity.
Hambletonian snorted, “You’d lose your bet, boy.”
A big grey trotted up. “Is it my time on the gate now?” he asked eagerly.
“Not yet, Greyhound,” Hambletonian said. “Old Fig’s on duty next.”
“Who’s Old Fig?” Western Hanover asked.
“His real name was Figure,” Hambletonian replied, “but down there they called him Justin Morgan, after his owner. Here he is now.”
A very small, dark bay with a round barrel, tiny feet and furry fetlocks came bustling up to the gate. “Okay, okay, I’m here ready to take over. I have a million things to do, a load to pull, a field to plow, a race to run, a trot to trot. No time to waste.”
In the weeks that followed, Artsplace and Western Hanover met hundreds of horses. Some were famous, and some were their ancestors, and a few of the best were their own sons and daughters.
They met a snorting white stallion named Bucephalus who had been approved for The Green Place by The Big Guy, even though it was rumored by some that he was cursed by the deadly sin of pride, because he had carried a conqueror named Alexander the Great.
There was another grey who limped, because he had stepped on a rusty nail back home just before he became lost forever. His name was Traveler, and he was a war horse in the days when a man named General Robert E. Lee had owned and ridden him. There were other soldier steeds, two of them descendents of the hustling little stallion Justin Morgan. One was General Phil Sheridan’s black Rienzi and the other a horse called both Fancy and Little Sorrel, who had been the mount of “Stonewall” Jackson.
Artsplace and Western Hanover found Hambletonian an amiable sort, despite his proud, aristocratic bearing, and they grew especially fond of a gorgeous trotter named Uhlan, who some said was the most beautiful horse ever to come to The Green Place. They asked him, as they did all the others, “Who is The Big Guy?” and the answer always was the same: “Wait until Christmas.”
They were nervous. Artsplace doubted he could ever find his way back to Kentucky and Brittany Farms, and Western Hanover worried that he would never find Pennsylvania and Hanover Shoe Farms again if The Big Guy didn’t approve them.
Finally, it was time. Thousands of horses gathered on a hill in the vast paddock on a starry night, and Hambletonian told Artsplace and Western Hanover to be quiet and humble, that The Big Guy would be there any minute.
And he was, standing suddenly in a blinding blaze of starlight. Artsplace choked back a whinny of derision and whispered to Hambletonian, “Is he The Big Guy? He’s so little. He’s not even a horse. What did he ever do?”
“He’s a donkey,” Hambletonian said. “He carried a woman heavy with child to a small town on another night when the stars were bright—a long, long time ago.”
Thought might be of interest. A merry and safe Christmas to the forum participants. May all your wishes and dreams come true next year! Cheers!!
The two great stallions sidled up to the gate. The place seemed familiar, yet somehow strange. The grass was greener than either had ever seen, when suddenly a stranger lumbered up and greeted them.
“Welcome,” the newcomer said.
“My name is Artsplace,” the first stallion said, “and this is…”
“I know,” said the homely bay who met them. “Western Hanover. I ought to know you both. I’m your great-great-great-great—I always lose count of the ‘greats’—but anyway, you’re both descendants of mine. Almost everybody here is. My name is Hambletonian.”
“Are you the gatekeeper?” Artsplace asked.
“Mostly,” Hambletonian replied. “I’m only on duty whenever one of my descendants is coming up. That’s all of the time, as far as harness horses are concerned. Eclipse takes care of most of the Thoroughbreds.”
“What is this place?” Western Hanover asked. “We must be lost.”
“It’s called The Green Place,” Hambletonian said. “Most of the horses that get lost come here. We have to send some back, of course.”
“Why?” Artsplace asked.
“Because they don’t belong here,” Hambletonian replied. “They didn’t race on heart alone, but on stuff pumped into them. The Big Guy didn’t blame them, but rather the people who trained and owned them—but he turned them back anyway.”
“Who’s The Big Guy?” Western Hanover asked.
“You’ll find out,” Hambletonian answered.
Then he lowered his muzzle and pushed the gate open.
“You might as well come in. You understand you’re on probation, though. The Big Guy makes his decisions about lost arrivals every Christmas. You won’t have long to wait.”
“I’ll bet the Big Guy is Messenger,” Artsplace said, as he moved inside the gate and gazed over the emerald-green expanses that seemed to stretch into infinity.
Hambletonian snorted, “You’d lose your bet, boy.”
A big grey trotted up. “Is it my time on the gate now?” he asked eagerly.
“Not yet, Greyhound,” Hambletonian said. “Old Fig’s on duty next.”
“Who’s Old Fig?” Western Hanover asked.
“His real name was Figure,” Hambletonian replied, “but down there they called him Justin Morgan, after his owner. Here he is now.”
A very small, dark bay with a round barrel, tiny feet and furry fetlocks came bustling up to the gate. “Okay, okay, I’m here ready to take over. I have a million things to do, a load to pull, a field to plow, a race to run, a trot to trot. No time to waste.”
In the weeks that followed, Artsplace and Western Hanover met hundreds of horses. Some were famous, and some were their ancestors, and a few of the best were their own sons and daughters.
They met a snorting white stallion named Bucephalus who had been approved for The Green Place by The Big Guy, even though it was rumored by some that he was cursed by the deadly sin of pride, because he had carried a conqueror named Alexander the Great.
There was another grey who limped, because he had stepped on a rusty nail back home just before he became lost forever. His name was Traveler, and he was a war horse in the days when a man named General Robert E. Lee had owned and ridden him. There were other soldier steeds, two of them descendents of the hustling little stallion Justin Morgan. One was General Phil Sheridan’s black Rienzi and the other a horse called both Fancy and Little Sorrel, who had been the mount of “Stonewall” Jackson.
Artsplace and Western Hanover found Hambletonian an amiable sort, despite his proud, aristocratic bearing, and they grew especially fond of a gorgeous trotter named Uhlan, who some said was the most beautiful horse ever to come to The Green Place. They asked him, as they did all the others, “Who is The Big Guy?” and the answer always was the same: “Wait until Christmas.”
They were nervous. Artsplace doubted he could ever find his way back to Kentucky and Brittany Farms, and Western Hanover worried that he would never find Pennsylvania and Hanover Shoe Farms again if The Big Guy didn’t approve them.
Finally, it was time. Thousands of horses gathered on a hill in the vast paddock on a starry night, and Hambletonian told Artsplace and Western Hanover to be quiet and humble, that The Big Guy would be there any minute.
And he was, standing suddenly in a blinding blaze of starlight. Artsplace choked back a whinny of derision and whispered to Hambletonian, “Is he The Big Guy? He’s so little. He’s not even a horse. What did he ever do?”
“He’s a donkey,” Hambletonian said. “He carried a woman heavy with child to a small town on another night when the stars were bright—a long, long time ago.”