fifteen hands, with good heads, sound feet, and short backs, and well up to the weight they carry. They frequently have to travel 50 miles a day for a week at a time, and in the South want of water often compels this rate to be exceeded. Lord Lorne's escort travelled 2,072 miles, at an average of 35 miles a day. An officer on his staff said that a month of such work would break up his regiment, a crack English cavalry corps. In 1879 one troop marched 2,100 miles within four months, but many of the men had done much more individually, and one of them had 7,000 miles to his credit during the year. On downright duty in 1889, not including exercise or drills, 376 horses of four divisions travelled the amazing distance of 646,805 miles, an average for each horse of 1,720 miles during the year. In 1886 "F" Division had to go from Battleford to Regina, marching at night on account. of the heat, and spending thirteen hours out of each twenty-four in the saddle, and they covered the 240 miles in five days and a half. A patrol of 80 mounted men without any spare horses, and with 12 heavily loaded teams travelled 650 miles in 22 days, on two of which they marched 40 and 42 miles without water. As may be supposed, great care and judgment is shown in the treatment of the horses; all that can be spared are turned out to shift for themselves in winter after native fashion, and profit greatly by the long rest. The saddle used is of the California pattern, and sore backs are of

rare occurrence.

It may be said that such instances represent work done under special conditions and in the most favorable circumstances. On the contrary, they are taken at random from official reports of ordinary duty. In the Rebellion of 1885 a detachment under Major Perry marched 928 miles in 38 days, an average of 24 miles a day, hauling a gun weighing 38 hundred- weight over prairie trails nearly impassable from the mud, fording rapid rivers swollen by the spring freshets, and crossing lakes and deep morasses, without losing a horse. The divisional orders of Major-General Strange attest

that that gun was mainly instrumental in demoralizing Big Bear's band in the engagement at Frenchman's Butte. The same detachment scouting between Battleford and Fort Pitt covered 130 miles in 36 hours without a horse giving out.

My testimony may savor of gratitude for kindness and hospitality received from commandant down to the solitary trooper who has shared his supper with me and given up his bed. The Mounted Police have come under the notice and invariably won the admiration of many much more qualified judges. They have escorted princes of the blood, general officers, and Governors-General, and this is what Lord Lorne told them when bidding them good-by at Fort Shaw, Montana. The first words allude to the compliment paid him and them by the parade of the United States troops in their honor.

"That good fellowship which exists. between soldiers is always to the fullest extent shown between you and our kind friends. This perfect understanding is to be expected, for both our empires

unlike some others, send out to their distant frontier posts not their worst, but some of their very best men. I have asked for this parade this morning to take leave of you, and to express my entire satisfaction at the manner in which your duties have been performed. You have been subjected to some searching criticism, for on my staff are officers who have served in the cavalry, artillery, and infantry. Their unanimous verdict is to the effect that they have never seen work better, more willingly, or more smartly done while under circumstances of some difficulty caused by bad weather or otherwise. Your appearance on parade was always as clean and bright and soldier-like as possible. Your force is often spoken of in Canada as one of which Canada is justly proud. It is well that this pride is so fully justified, for your duties are most important and varied. The perfect confidence in the maintenance of the authority of the law prevailing over these vast Territories, a confidence most necessary with the settlement now proceeding, shows how thoroughly you have done your work.

I.

T grieves me sorely to read in the newspapers the accounts of the young gentlemen of Newport and the region round about riding across the country in hot pursuit of an anise-bag. It grieves me to know that a noble instinct is frittered away in so futile a fashionthat youth, talent, and native enthusiasm are doomed by their environment never to glow with the unspeakable, the indescribable ardor that takes possession of those who are engaged in the business of following a red fox. I long to invite these young gentlemen into the ample woodlands and far-stretching Bermuda fields of middle Georgia, where the old

time sport of fox-hunting is still pursued by the chosen few. I long to get them here and turn them over to the genial souls who steal away from the petty cares of life to greet the rosy dawn with thrilling horn and baying hound. I long to see the young men drifting across these hills, where musical echoes swarm, following an old Red that has been seasoned and trained to the work. The gloss would disappear from their top boots and the nap would be shorn from their velveteens; but what matter? A month of pleasure would be compressed into the space of three hours, and ever after life would hold a different meaning.

Not that I would decry or belittle the

drag-hunts that the anise-bag is the basis of. No! Better a sassafras root, hauled through the wind-better an anise-bag no bigger than your thumbthan no drag at all. By exercising the imagination the young men who follow the hunt can get, perhaps, a faint whiff of the real thing-a touch, though never so light-of the genuine enthusiasm that possesses those who are worthy to share in this sport.

But them that are wise in this matter must needs have a tenderness for their dogs. Think of insulting the delicate nostrils of the great Virginia Captain, or his greater grandson, Hodo, or Rowan, or Whalebone, or Music, or Rapidan, or the wonderful July, or even old Jonah, of Putnam, with the anisebag! The sensitive mind revolts at the very idea. Therefore, I beg the young men who are mimicking the noble sport of fox-hunting to give their dogs at least the flavor of the genuine thing. Are fox-pelts so scarce or so costly that they cannot be used instead of anise-seed? The experiment would be worth trying. I should imagine that a well-bred dog, trained to anise and that sort of thing, would follow a fox-skin with bristles up, and with mellower cries.

I confess the anise irks me. It fills me with gloomy suspicions. If nothing better could be had, gladly would I applaud the spirit of self-sacrifice impelling the young men to use it. But there is no scarcity of fox-skins, and if there were the skin of the prowling Thomascat would make an admirable substitute. But anise! I would swap not the fillip of a finger for the dog that would give tongue to it. When some one remarked to Jamie Hogg on the barbarous character of fox-hunting, his reply was: "Think of the dogs! So, when I see in the newspapers accounts of the cross-country riding after an anise-bag, I want to cry out in protest, "Think of the dogs!" The chosen few think not only of their dogs, but of their neighbors' dogs.

II.

Ir is a far cry from the anise-bag and the unfortunate dogs that pursue it, to the red fox; but I hesitate about deal

ing with the mystery that envelops the latter. I approach it doubtfully, not with the intention of solving it, but with the hope that some of our amateur or professional scientists, who are so ready with their theories, may give it a moment's attention and, belike, explain it away. The mystery I speak of has its centre in middle Georgia, and it involves two interesting problems: Where did the red fox come from, and where is he going? What instinct has led this rough-and-tumble emigrant into Georgia and is now beckoning him out? This movement was noted by the fox hunters of middle Georgia more than a quarter of a century ago. During that time there have been movements and counter-movements, disappearances and reappearances-all the signs of unrest and bewilderment-but the general movement has been toward the southwest. What irresistible impulse leads or pushes him in that direction? Water has more terrors for the red fox than for the house cat. It is only in the last extremity he will take to it, but in coming hitherward, as in going away, he has forded streams and swum rivers. He has crossed the Savannah, the Oconee, the Ocmulgee, the Altamaha; he has crossed and is still crossing the Chattahochee. This much I know by observation, by correspondence and through oral information imparted by hunters who would themselves be glad to have some explanation of the mystery.

From 1843 to 1863-probably a year or two later, the red fox swarmed in middle Georgia, and for ten years of that time he was invincible, outfooting all the dogs that could be brought against him. "Old Spot," to characterize the long-eared, "blobber-mouthed" hound, was nowhere. Old Spot and his breed could run down a gray fox in five or six hours, but the red ran right away from them, leaving a cold trail behind him. But let us not do injustice to the dogs of the "Old Spot " variety. They furnished plenty of comfortable sport, and they were patient and indefatigable. They were admirably adapted to hunting the gray fox. They lumbered around after him in his doublings and turnings, and gave even the amateurs an

opportunity to enjoy the sport. But when the red fox took up his abode in the neighborhood, he put an end to the enjoyment. When this interloper rose from his warm bed and swept the dew from the broom-sedge with his brush, he made a straight shoot for the next county, and on some occasions Old Spot and his brethren, stiff and sore, would be several days making the return trip. Sometimes they failed to return.

Moreover, in some mysterious wayit is part of the mystery that attaches to him—the red fox served a writ of ejection on the gray- a writ that was satisfied instanter. Wherever the red fox put in an appearance, the gray made way for him, deserting his home and his feeding grounds, and fleeing in abject terror before the stranger. What is the secret of this terror? A gray captured alive is as savage as a bull-dog, snarling and biting at everything that comes in his way. But introduce to his attention even a red fox cub and he will make the most desperate efforts to escape. The cub, on the other hand, will fly at the gray with all vengeance, showing that the enmity between them is inherent and instinctive.

Thus it was that the red, which has been so prolific of sport, seemed born to destroy the pleasures of the hunters of middle Georgia. He ran out of hearing of their dogs, and drove the gray to other fields. When the interloper made his first appearance he was given a most cordial welcome. The hunters of middle Georgia had often heard of him, and they longed to match their dogs against his speed and endurance. They had the conceit of their guild. No fox-hunter of spirit will admit that his dogs are inferior to any other dogs.

Among those who were anxious for an opportunity to add the brush of a red fox to their collection was Mr. John Respess, of Putnam County, who still lives to enjoy a green old age. He was a most ardent and successful fox-hunter. He had given up "Old Spot" and his kind, and was cultivating the Redbone dog. The Redbones had speed and bottom, but they lacked body and bone. They were too light. But Mr. Respess and his neighbors were not aware of

this. It was a fact that still needed demonstration.

One frosty morning in 1843, Mr. Respess heard his dogs giving tongue merrily not far from the house. The music made his heart glow. "It is a rascally fox," he thought, "that has ventured too near the hen-roost, but he'll never venture again." He hurried out to join the hunt that seemed to be getting nearer. By the time he could have his horse saddled, the dogs in full cry went sweeping through his orchard. He rode after them as fast as circumstances would allow, but it was not long before they were out of hearing. After waiting awhile for the fox to double and fetch his pack back to breakfast, Mr. Respess rode back home. The idea occurred to him that his dogs had run the fox down and caught it without giving it time to double and return, and the thought was a consoling one. After breakfast Mr. Respess went about his business, and, for a time forgot all about the episode of the early morning. Later in the day he found that his dogs had not returned, and he summoned them home with the horn, but at night they had not returned, and it was not until the middle of the next day that they came straggling in, stiff and lame.

Mr. Respess rubbed his chin and thought the matter over. If he was puzzled it was only for a moment. There was but one explanation, and the very thought of it thrilled him with enthusiasm. He went into his orchard to set at rest whatever small doubts he may have had. There in the soft loamy soil, in the trail that his dogs had followed the day before, he found a fox's pad. It was larger and not so compact as the pad of a gray. Thereupon Mr. Respess, being a young man and full of the enthusiasm of a genuine sportsman, flung his hat in the air and gave a yell of delight that aroused his kennel. It was the pad of the long-wished-for red fox. Mr. Respess made no more fuss over the matter. Enthusiastic as he was, he took pains not to blab his discovery. He told his secret to a few choice spirits and then endeavored to make the most of it. In a fortnight he found that a red fox and a vixen had taken up their abode in his gin-house