Volume 93 — THE LOST RECORD.

Running one day on the "Cinder," I led all the field with ease; I felt I was going strongly, I romped in quite "as you please." I knew not what I was doing, I was "fit as a fiddle" then, I never shall make again. It flooded the sporting papers, I got the pedestrian palm. They called me Champion of Champions; The praise in my ears was balm. But another "Ped."—confound him!— "Cut" my record, in our next strife, By exactly one-tenth of a second. I should like to have his life! I was Champion of Champions no longer, Gone, gone was my pride, my peace. Oh, the cheers for my hated supplanter! I thought they would never cease. I have struggled, but struggled vainly, By practice and training fine, To regain once more that "Record," Which for a brief month was mine. It may be the man who licked me Will be licked by yet better men, But the "Record" I lost that morning I never shall win again.