oment, cried, "Go along, old boy! Go along
with you, I say!"

This was the very thing, and the only thing, that huge horse, whose
blood was now fairly aflame, wanted to rally him for the final effort;
and, in response to the encouraging cries of the two behind him, he
gathered himself together for another burst of speed, and put forth his
collected strength with such tremendous energy and suddenness of
movement that the little deacon, who had risen, and was standing erect
in the sleigh, fell back into the arms of the parson, while the great
horse rushed over the line a winner by a clear length, amid such cheers
and roars of laughter as were never heard in that village before.

Nor was the horse any more the object of public interest and remark--we
may say favoring remark--than the parson, who suddenly found himself the
centre of a crowd of his own parishioners, many of whom would scarcely
be expected as participants of such a scene, but who, thawed out of
their iciness by the genial temper of the day, and vastly excited over
Jack's contest, thronged upon the good man, laughing as heartily as any
jolly sinner in the crowd.

So everybody shook hands with the parson and wished him a Happy New
Year, and the parson shook hands with everybody and wished them all many
happy returns; and everybody praised old Jack, and rallied the deacon on
his driving; and then everybody went home good-natured and happy,
laughing and talking about the wonderful race, and the change that had
come over Parson Whitney.

And as for Parson Whitney himself, the day and its fun had taken twenty
years from his age, and nothing would answer but the deacon must go home
and eat the New Year's pudding at the parsonage; and he did. And at the
table they laughed and talked over the funny incidents of the day, and
joked each other as merrily as two boys. Then Parson Whitney told some
reminiscences of his college days, and the scrapes he got into, and a
riot between town and gown, when he carried the "Bully's Club;" and the
deacon responded by narrating his experiences with a certain Deacon
Jones's watermelon patch when he was a boy, and over their tales and
their mulled cider they laughed till they cried, and roared so lustily
at the remembered frolics of their youthful days that the old parsonage
rang, the books on the library shelves rattled, and several of the
theological volumes actually gaped with horror.

But at last the stories were all told, the