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306 HONDA THE SAMURAI. the line of balls on their right hand. They rode slowly at first, picking up and hurling the balls for- ward toward the goal ; when within throwing dis- tance they attempted to fling them over the wickets. In a few minutes several balls had gone over, and the upper end of the course was now a pied field, looking something like an irregularly picked paper of mint drops. It was no longer a dress parade, but a pitched battle and a fiercely contested struggle of excited men and of clashing horse and gear and bamboo spoons. There a red flaps his saddle with his heavy metal stirrups, spurs being unknown, and his steed flashes toward a white ball. He is just about to scoop it up, when click goes a white spoon under his, and the ball flies whirling back. There goes a victor whose defiant white helmet gleams like a wild goose careering past the moon. He has already flung seven balls clear over the wickets, he is now dashing for an ! eighth Who can stop him ? He is already shouting his triumph, when, like an arrow, a young red dashes before him. The red spoon missed the mark, and the horse's shoulder, striking his white rival's flank, sends steed and rider rolling over the sand. Quick as lightning, white-hat leaps nimbly off the saddle, and before his horse is on his hoofs the ball and whirls it over the again scoops up wicket. A tempest of clapping hands from the ladies and shouts from the men greet the victor, who, without pausing to acknowledge the applause, is in saddle again, the white lacquer of his helmet, as the sun strikes it, dazzling his admirers.
A GAME OF POLO. 307 A number of lively episodes and passes and some splendid feats of horsemanship fill up the game toward the last. It is evident that in spite of the fine playing of two of the He'ike', the Genji have the advantage of coolness and practice. One of the reds has been put hors du combat, with a bruised right arm and a broken spoon. The tilt for the last ball is at hand. All the balls are over and out; one alone remains. To bag the last ball is even a greater honor than the first. Now for the final tug ! Eleven men and horses after one tiny ball ! Now backward, now forward, now in mid-air, tossed on the top of the netted sticks like a ball on a fountain jet, now hurled back a dozen horse-lengths ! See how they dash to it ! What a clash and mass of horse legs, manes, heads, gilt saddle-flaps, with clanging of metal stirrups, banging of spoons battle of the centaurs with the Lapithae, at the mar- ! It reminds one of the riage of Hippodamia and Pirithous. Snap ! a spoon has been crushed by a hoof, and a white-hat is unhurt, but hors du combat. " " Hai ! hai ! hai ! shouts a red-hat, and the ball is thrown by a back stroke far on toward the goal. Out dashes another red from the mass of centaurs. His helmet on his shoulders, his top-knot all awry, his hair loose, his face streaming with perspiration, his eye flashing, yet cool and sure of triumph, he defiantly awaits his rival. The spoon of one is within a foot of the prize, when, with a yell, he lifts it and sends it flying through and fifty feet beyond the wickets. The applause is tumultuous, and in it even the dignified daimios,
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A GAME OF POLO. 307<br />
A number of lively episodes and passes and some<br />
splendid feats of horsemanship fill up the game<br />
toward the last. It is evident that in spite of the<br />
fine playing of two of the He'ike', the Genji have the<br />
advantage of coolness and practice. One of the reds<br />
has been put hors du combat, with a bruised right<br />
arm and a broken spoon. The tilt for the last ball<br />
is at hand. All the balls are over and out; one<br />
alone remains. To bag the last ball is even a greater<br />
honor than the first. Now for the final tug ! Eleven<br />
men and horses after one tiny ball ! Now<br />
backward,<br />
now forward, now in mid-air, tossed on the top of<br />
the netted sticks like a ball on a fountain jet, now<br />
hurled back a dozen horse-lengths ! See how they<br />
dash to it ! What a clash and mass of horse legs,<br />
manes, heads, gilt saddle-flaps, with clanging of metal<br />
stirrups, banging of spoons<br />
battle of the centaurs with the Lapithae, at the mar-<br />
! It reminds one of the<br />
riage of Hippodamia and Pirithous. Snap ! a spoon<br />
has been crushed by a hoof, and a white-hat is unhurt,<br />
but hors du combat.<br />
" "<br />
Hai ! hai ! hai ! shouts a<br />
red-hat, and the ball is thrown by a back stroke far<br />
on toward the goal. Out dashes another red from<br />
the mass of centaurs. His helmet on his shoulders,<br />
his top-knot all awry, his hair loose, his face streaming<br />
with perspiration, his eye flashing, yet cool and<br />
sure of triumph, he defiantly awaits his rival. The<br />
spoon of one is within a foot of the prize, when,<br />
with a yell, he lifts it and sends it flying through<br />
and fifty feet beyond the wickets. The applause<br />
is tumultuous, and in it even the dignified daimios,
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