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Unlike some other reproductions of classic texts (1) We have not used OCR(Optical Character Recognition), as this leads to bad quality books with introduced typos. (2) In books where there are images such as portraits, maps, sketches etc We have endeavoured to keep the quality of these images, so they represent accurately the original artefact. Although occasionally there may be certain imperfections with these old texts, we feel they deserve to be made available for future generations to enjoy.
Reproduction of the original: The Talking Horse by F. Anstey
Rather an odd collection of ten short stories, some are for adults and some for children, although these are also enjoyable. Anstey is noted for his humorous fantasy stories but only some are comic and not all contain fantasy elements. None of the stories are bad but non are really great either. I especially liked "Shut Out" which was a surprisingly disturbing tragedy and "Taken by surprise" after a shaky start probably the funniest story in the collection.
There are 10 stories in this collection some apparently more suited to children and others to adults. Anstey was a writer much admired for his humour in his day, and many of these stories are funny and will make the reader laugh.
It was on the way to Sandown Park that I met him first, on that horribly wet July afternoon when Bendigo won the Eclipse Stakes. He sat opposite to me in the train going down, and my attention was first attracted to him by the marked contrast between his appearance and his attire: he had not thought fit to adopt the regulation costume for such occasions, and I think I never saw a man who had made himself more aggressively horsey. The mark of the beast was sprinkled over his linen: he wore snaffle sleeve-links, a hard hunting-hat, a Newmarket coat, and extremely tight trousers. And with all this, he fell as far short of the genuine sportsman as any stage super who ever wore his spurs upside down in a hunting-chorus. His expression was mild and inoffensive, and his watery pale eyes and receding chin gave one the idea that he was hardly to be trusted astride anything more spirited than a gold-headed cane. And yet, somehow, he aroused compassion rather than any sense of the ludicrous: he had that look of shrinking self-effacement which comes of a recent humiliation