A boy and his filly get the chance to prove their greatness in this classic horse tale from Newbery Award–winning author Marguerite Henry, now available in a collectible hardcover gift edition. Gibson can hear the beat of the horses’ hooves against the track. Trotters are the world to him. But all he ever does is practice. He’s still too young and inexperienced to drive in a real race. Only he knows he’s ready for the big leagues. If people would give him a chance, then they would know it too. Gib’s chance comes with a filly named Rosalind. Now he can prove that he’s good enough to train a champion. But does he really have what it takes? Can Gib and Rosalind go all the way to win the Hambletonian, the greatest race of all? This classic horse story from Newbery Award–winning author Marguerite Henry features the original text and illustrations in a gorgeous collectible hardcover edition. The New York Times ..".packed with information as well as vivid accounts of exciting races." The New York Times ."..packed with information as well as vivid accounts of exciting races." The New York Times.,."packed with information as well as vivid accounts of exciting races." The New York Times ..."packed with information as well as vivid accounts of exciting races." Marguerite Henry (1902–1997) was the beloved author of such classic horse stories as King of the Wind , Misty of Chincoteague , and Stormy, Misty’s Foal , and her work has won several Newbery Awards and Honors. Wesley Dennis was best known for his illustrations in collaboration with author Marguerite Henry. They published sixteen books together. Born to Trot One THE sun was no more than a pink promise. Yet the first horses were already skimming the track, legs winking blackly against the white fence. In the half haze of morning the spider-web sulkies barely could be seen. The drivers seemed floating along on the outflung tails of their horses. In the vast, deserted grandstand a lone boy was scratching the head of his old dog, Bear. The boy was in his early teens, tall for his age, lean and rangy, with eyes dark except for flecks of golden light in them. As he patted Bear, he gave no sign that he was thinking of the dog at all. His eyes were rounding the track with the trotters and pacers, and there was a look of awareness in them—as if something had long been brewing inside him and now was ready to boil over. “Morning, Pony Boy!” A jovial voice cut across his thoughts and a roughened hand tweaked his ear. “How come you’re not out there on the track working your pony?” Gibson turned and saw the old horseman, Bill Dickerson. Pony Boy! That was it—Pony Boy! The name rankled. He was tired of forever jogging his pony up the stretch instead of down the stretch, tired of getting nowhere. Even the pony must be bored with the monotonous, treadmill sort of work. Even he might get to thinking less of himself for it. Suddenly, right there in the grandstand while the horses flew past him and while the old reinsman waited an answer, the boy was struck with a knowing. He knew he belonged with the horses and men skimming through the morning light. He felt himself old enough to take a green colt as they had done, to train him on and on until life for that colt was all smooth-flying trot. Bill Dickerson stood grinning, putting on his gloves, adjusting his racing goggles. Gibson realized the man had not meant to belittle him. “I’m going to hitch up my pony now,” he answered at last. But instead of moving off at once, he waited, watching the famous reinsman step out on the track where a groom stood holding a nervous mare. He watched the old legs arc over the sulky seat, heard the soft voice cluck to the mare, saw her strike up a trot. Then he lost them all to the mist. Troubled over his problem, he came down out of the grandstand and trudged slowly toward his father’s stable. Bear sniffed on ahead, stopping occasionally to growl at a pet goose or to chase a bantam rooster. Beyond the stables in a shaded paddock Tony, a sturdy pinto, stood rubbing himself against the bark of a tree, trying to shed the last of his winter coat. At the sound of Gibson’s whistle Tony left off his scratching and loped over to the gate. He knew each day’s routine. First the grooming, then the harnessing. Then the cart pulled up behind him and the shafts made snug in the harness straps. Usually Gibson talked to Tony while he brushed and buckled and tied, but this morning he worked in broody silence. He felt tired, somehow. Only Bear was excited as ever, yapping and dancing on his hind legs to lick the pony’s face. It was one thing, Gibson told himself, to know with a piercing sureness that you were hard-muscled and ready to do a man’s work, but it was another thing to convince your father. Not that Tony isn’t the best in the world, he thought as he checked the shaft straps, giving a pull to see if they were tight. It’s just that a fellow outgrows things. First he ou