OLD FAVORITES

The speeches in this section are famous declamations, prize winners in many a contest.

A speaker need have no hesitancy in choosing one of these old standbys if it appeals to him. The programs of the more important declamation contest of recent years show a liberal sprinkling of the old time favorites.

THE BLACK HORSE AND HIS RIDER

BY

GEORGE LIPPARD

See page 311.

It was the 7th of October, 1777. Horatio Gates stood before his tent, gazing steadfastly upon the two armies, now arrayed in order of battle. It was a clear, bracing day, mellow with the richness of autumn. The sky was cloudless; the foliage of the woods scarce tinged with purple and gold. But the tread of legions shook the ground; from every bush shot the glimmer of the rifle barrel; on every hillside blazed the sharpened bayonet. But all at once a smoke arose, a thunder shook the ground, and a chorus of shouts and groans yelled along the darkened air. The play of death had begun. The two flags, this of the stars, that of the red cross, tossed amid the smoke of battle, while the sky was clouded with leaden folds, and the earth throbbed with the pulsations of a mighty heart.

Suddenly, Gates and his officers were startled. Along the height on which they stood came a rider upon a black horse rushing toward the distant battle. Look! he draws his sword, the sharp blade quivers through the air; he points to the distant battle, and lo! he is gone, gone through those clouds, while his shout echoes over the plains. Wherever the fight is thickest, there,

through intervals of cannon smoke you may see, riding madly forward, that strange soldier, mounted on his steed black as death. Look at him as, with face red with British blood, he waves his sword and shouts to his legions. Now you may see him fighting in that cannon's glare, and in the next moment he is away off yonder, leading the forlorn hope up that steep cliff.

Look for a moment into those clouds of battle. There bursts a band of American militiamen, fleeing before that company of redcoat hirelings, who come rushing forward, their solid front of bayonets gleaming in the battle light. In the moment of their flight a horse comes crashing over the plains. The unknown rider reins his steed back on his haunches, right in the path of these broad-shouldered militiamen. "What! are you Americans, men, and flee before British soldiers?" he shouts. "Back again, and face them once more, or I myself will ride you down!" Their leader turns; his comrades, as if by one impulse, follow his example. In one line, but thirty men in all, they confront thirty sharp bayonets. The British advance. "Now upon the rebels, charge!" shouts the redcoat officer. They spring forward at the same bound. At this moment the voice of the unknown rider is heard: "Now let them have it! Fire!" A sound is heard, a smoke is seen, twenty Britons are down. The remaining ten start back. "Club your rifles and charge them home!" shouts the unknown. That black horse springs forward, followed by the militiamen. Then a confused conflict, a cry for quarter, and a vision of twenty farmers grouped around the rider of the black horse, greeting him with cheers.

Thus it was all the day long. Wherever that black

horse and his rider went, there followed victory. At last, toward the setting of the sun, the crises of the conflict came. That fortress yonder on Bemis' Heights must be won, or the American cause is lost! That cliff is too steep, that death is too certain. The officers cannot persuade the men to advance. The Americans have lost the field. Even Morgan, that iron man among iron men, leans on his rifle and despairs of the field. But look yonder! In this moment, when all is dismay and horror, here, crashing on, comes the black horse and his rider. And now look! as that black steed crashes up that steep cliff. That steed quivers! he totters! he falls! No! No! Still on, still up the cliff, still on toward the fortress. The rider turns his face and shouts: "Come on, men of Quebec! come on!" That call is needless. Already the bold riflemen are on the rock. Now, British cannon, pour your fires, and lay your dead in tens and twenties on the rock. Now, redcoat hirelings, shout your battle cry if you can! For! look! there, in the gate of the fortress, as the smoke clears away, stands the black horse and his rider. That steed falls dead, pierced by a hundred balls; but his rider, as the British cry for quarter, lifts up his voice and shouts afar to Horatio Gates, waiting yonder in his tent: "Saratoga is won!" As that cry goes up to heaven he falls, with his leg shattered by a cannon ball.

Who was the rider of the black horse? Do you not guess his name? Then bend down and gaze on that shattered limb, and you will see that it bears the mark of a former wound. That wound was received in the That rider of the black horse

storming of Quebec. was-Benedict Arnold.