At Laurel

Sad it is to see the courage go out of a horse, the fire die in him that made him swift, so that though he runs against equals in a valiant race and every flag is lifted for his triumph, his heart fails him in the hazard of his task, he falters and cannot win. It was a sad thing that happened, last week, at Laurel, Md. There Epinard was running ; the race, the Laurel Stakes; the distance, one mile; the prize, $10,000. He was a favorite among favorites, "for," said the lean men who ride horses, the fat men who bet on them, "he is due* to win."

In the parade before the race, the French four-year-old seemed lacklustre; there was a negligence under his sleek grace; and he needed a touch of the whip to bring him up to the barrier--a touch that made him sulky. Jockey Kummer, instead of Jockey Haynes, had the leg up and rode an adequate race except for that one rash touch. Away they went--a flash of silk, a huddle of bobbing heads at the turn, one, two, pulling away, animated toys all; then the stretch, the crowd ris- ing, a tatoo of hoofs--F. A. Burton's Wise Counsellor first; second, Big Blaze; third, Sun Flag; fourth, Initiate; fifth, Epinard, limping, staggering. A quarter crack in his hoof, though bound that morning, had broken wide open; the pain had killed his spirit, made him lose for the fourth time. Lamed, he will race no more in the United States, said Trainer Leigh speaking for Owner Wertheimer.