Chapter X: Y. Z (4)

OBSERVATIONS.—In this contest, which it was supposed would be the most hollow thing ever attempted, the spectators were very agreeably surprised. Lee, although he did not act the part of a game man in the strict sense of the word in falling without a blow, yet he was not deficient in skill and resolution so as to disenable him to rouse the admiration of the amateurs. He never had a chance of winning, although he made a very good fight; for the odds, to nearly the end of the contest, were treble against him to what they were at the commencement, and at the end, when Mendoza became weak, they were never less than four to one. He got himself miserably beaten in the former part of the fight by making play, but his seconds did not suffer him so to act at the latter part. He had the advantage in stature and length of arm, and he fought with his left hand extended, constantly sawing. Mendoza had a decided advantage over his opponent in the knowledge of bruising, which the beating Lee received will most fully demonstrate. Dan stopped most admirably, and he seldom hit with his right hand without the desired effect. With his left he sometimes led himself into an error, for he generally hit over his man and left his right side exposed. He showed himself a pleasing fighter, as he always has done, and his fatigue at the end of the fight was no more than momentary, for he was quite fresh after the contest was over, and his only suffering was a blow he had on the left eye and another on the nose, which was broken in a fight many years since.

Another account says the contest between Mendoza and Harry Lee was much more serious to the former than has been generally described. About the thirtieth round the odds changed from five to even betting; and though Lee declared himself compelled at last to give in, on which his seconds advised him to drop without receiving a blow, which decided the battle, Mendoza was so severely beaten that he was immediately put to bed with both eyes closed and his face mangled in a shocking manner.

BORZOI SANDRINGHAM MOSCOW.
Winner of First Prize. Property of Her Majesty Queen Alexandra.

_Photo by Dexter & Son._]
]

It is almost incredible the number of spectators that were present.... The following were the leading amateurs: Lord Albemarle, Lord Sefton, Count Beaujolaise, Sir Watkin W. Wynn, Sir John Shelley, Sir Edm Nagle, Captain Halliday, Mr. Thornhill, General Keppel, Mr. Buxton, Mr. Fletcher Reid.

The Borzoi.

Of the several breeds of foreign dogs that have been introduced into England, the Borzoi has obtained a considerable amount of popularity. It is, however, not more than fifteen years ago that the breed was first seen in any numbers, and was accorded a separate classification in the Stud Book. He is the most aristocratic in appearance of all the canine race, but, although so gracefully and slenderly built, has a most powerful jaw, and is very muscular, as he needs to be, when he is required on occasions to tackle a wolf single-handed.

The Borzoi is the favourite of Royalty. He is to be found in the Imperial kennels of Russia, and also in those of the Grand Dukes and others of high degree, and among the first seen in this country were a brace that were presented, upwards of thirty years ago, to the Prince of Wales (now King Edward VII.), which hounds were occasionally exhibited on the show bench, and were bred from; but as there is no record of their names appearing in the pedigrees of the present generation of Borzois, they and their produce seem to have been lost sight of. Still, now and again in the years which intervened between that period and the time when the breed became firmly established here, a specimen or two then known as the Siberian or Russian wolfhound appeared in the classes confined to foreign dogs, but these were very indifferent representatives of the breed when compared with the beautiful animals that were afterwards imported by her Grace the Duchess of Newcastle, who at the present time owns the largest and most successful kennel that has probably ever been seen out of Russia, or with Alex, who was presented in 1895 to the Princess of Wales (now Queen Alexandra). A more magnificent animal than the Borzoi Alex has scarcely ever been seen.

With the advent of Alex the breed, which has already been recognised by the Kennel Club, and for which a specialist club had been formed to look after its interests some three years before, quickly took a prominent position amongst our show dogs, and now large classes of Borzois are to be seen at all the principal shows; and Her Majesty was successful in winning a first prize in a group of thirty-two at the Crystal Palace, and also at Birmingham, with a young dog bred at the Royal kennels at Sandringham. That the Borzoi has now become thoroughly nationalised in England is proved by the fact that the whole of the animals shown on these occasions were home-bred. In addition to Her Majesty and her Grace the Duchess of Newcastle, Mrs. Borman, of Billericay, has a large kennel of these dogs, and other prominent breeders of them are Princess Sophia Duleep Singh, Mrs. Kilvert, Mrs. E. A. Huth, of Wadhurst, and Miss Robinson, of Tewkesbury. Mr. H. Murphy, of Padiham, also has a few valuable specimens, and so has Mrs. Aitchison, whose kennels are at Wallsend-on-Tyne.

BORZOI PUILAI.
Winner of First and Champion Prizes. The Property of Mrs. Ebsworth.

_Photo by Bowden Brothers._]
]

Although largely used for coursing the wolf in his native land, the Borzoi is only kept as a companion in England. He is useless for coursing the hare, as he is not so fast, nor can he turn so quickly as the greyhound. At work with the wolf, however, the Borzoi has no equal, as he holds on much more tenaciously when he has seized his prey than either greyhound or Scottish deerhound, both of which have been tried in Russia. When wolves are to be coursed, the dogs (generally two or three) are held in slips by a keeper on horseback at the corner of a covert whilst the latter is being drawn by foxhounds. On the wolf breaking covert he is given a start of two hundred yards, when the hounds are slipped, who before they have gone a mile, and sometimes considerably less, are up with their quarry, which they seize on either side by the neck. The wolf is then powerless, and the rider, after dismounting, either muzzles the animal, if it is a large one, or dispatches it with a knife, if it is small and not of any use to be kept for the purpose of practising the young dogs. During the muzzling operation the seasoned dogs keep fast hold of the wolf, but young hounds, when first entered, will sometimes seize the wolf by the back or leg, when they run the chance of being terribly mauled. They, however, soon learn the fact that the only safe place to get hold of is the neck, and that they must not let go their grip till the wolf is muzzled.

An occasional hound can take a wolf single-handed, but it is only the most practised hunters that are allowed to do so. When one dog only is sent in pursuit of the foe, on the latter being caught the two roll over together, but the dog always comes up at the top, and it is quite the exception for the latter to receive any injury. Sometimes, in places where difficulty is expected in finding, bagged wolves are brought into requisition, but the quarry that is disturbed from his native haunts generally shows the best sport. Under any circumstances the pastime is most exhilarating, travelling to the scene of action on the snow at break-neck speed, over hill and dale, and sliding down the sides of miniature mountains on the sledges, the atmosphere so cold that unless the sportsmen are well wrapped up in furs there is a considerable chance of their getting frostbitten.

There are two varieties of the Borzoi, one with flat, the other with rougher coat; but the latter is the favourite, and is certainly the more handsome. Those in the Imperial kennels being chiefly of the rough-coated variety, they are exactly the same in general contour, the only difference being in the texture of coat. A representative of the greyhound tribe, the formation of the Borzoi is characteristic of great speed, endurance, and strength. As already stated, associated with the snake-like head is a most powerful jaw; a perfect specimen has immense depth of chest, but perhaps the most noticeable feature is the power that is to be observed in his loins and quarters. He is a much bigger dog than the greyhound or deerhound. In height he will sometimes measure as much as 31 inches, and Korotai, a well-known winner in the last decade, drew the scale at 110 lbs. The largest dogs are not, however, always the best workers, as those that are an inch or two less in stature are generally more sturdily built.

Colour in the Borzoi is an important item, as it naturally would be in an animal that is made on such graceful lines. On the body white predominates, with patches of orange, fawn, or blue, sparsely distributed, and the hair is soft and silky to the touch. Black-and-tan is an objectionable colour. Others that are self-coloured are also equally objectionable, as also are black markings of any sort. Patches of brindle with white ground, on the other hand, are admissable. The winner at the show of the Imperial Gun Club at Moscow was so marked.

As regards the foot of the Borzoi, opinions appear to differ. We in England prefer the cat foot, the same as that of the greyhound and other sporting dogs, but in Russia many of the chief winners have the hare foot, which is considered in that country to be better adapted for galloping on the snow. The following are some of the other points that are characteristic of the breed: In general appearance he should show a combination of nobility and elegance, and his every movement should be graceful. The head should be very long and snake-like, the skull narrow and flat, but not receding; the muzzle tapering from the eye to the nose, and slightly arched when viewed in profile; the eyes dark hazel in colour, and almond shaped; the ears thin and small, and carried like those of the greyhound; the teeth level (an overshot mouth is a great defect). The neck is somewhat short for a dog of his size, and the chest narrow; but there should be plenty of heart room, as seen by his great depth of brisket; the forelegs straight and rather fine in bone; the back arched, with flanks cut up; the loins muscular, with broad quarters and strong hind-legs; the hocks not quite so much bent nor close to the ground as those of the greyhound; and he has the peculiarity of appearing to be rather higher behind than in front, but this is probably caused by his arched loins.

FREDK. GRESHAM.

Some Sport in the Transvaal in 1878.

BY LIEUT.-COLONEL ALSAGER POLLOCK.

Before proceeding to describe the pleasant little trip which will furnish the principal subject of the narrative that follows, it may be as well to explain, briefly, the conditions under which I had found my way into the Transvaal and what I was doing there. During 1876 and 1877 the Transvaal Republic had been at war with Sekukuni, and by the close of the former year had become hopelessly bankrupt. The operations against Sekukuni had been the reverse of successful; the Zulus were said to be restless, and a large proportion of the Transvaal Boers declared themselves in favour of annexation by Great Britain. Sir Theophilus Shepstone—“Somsteu” as the Kaffirs named him—went up to Pretoria, as Special Commissioner, in January, 1877; and in March my regiment (the 1st Battalion 13th Light Infantry), with two guns and a small detachment of Royal Engineers, marched up country. A halt was made at Newcastle, pending the result of the negotiations at Pretoria; but eventually we reached the latter place, where the British flag was hoisted on the Queen’s birthday. The march, as a military movement, was uneventful, and the opportunities for sport as a rule scanty. We had some excellent duck shooting near Newcastle, and just beyond Standerton we saw what can no longer be seen, but what those who have seen it can never forget, the annual migration of all kinds of game from the “High Veldt” to the “Bush Veldt.” From as far westward as the eye could reach the great procession kept coming, whilst its head was beyond the horizon in the east. All kinds of antelopes, quaggas, &c., were to be measured not by hundreds or thousands, but by _miles_. It may here be mentioned that the animal which the Boers call a “quagga”—pronounced “quaaha”—is really Burchell’s zebra. To me it has always seemed a shame to shoot these beautiful creatures, except when scarcity of meat demands the sacrifice.

At first, after our arrival at Pretoria everything was quiet, but very soon it became necessary to send four companies to Utrecht, on the Zulu border, and in the absence of this detachment a party of some 1,500 Boer malcontents assembled, armed, at Pretoria, where they held an indignation meeting under our noses. Our strength was limited to about 350 men, lusty old soldiers indeed, yet a mere handful. Luckily, however, the local military authorities were neither clever enough to understand the danger nor foolish enough to provoke a contest. We had no entrenchments of any sort; our camp was within 300 yards of the town, and probably about ten minutes’ fighting would have sufficed for our extinction. Perhaps the Boers assumed from our attitude of calm indifference that a trap had been set? At all events no trouble ensued, and the assembly dispersed.

Round Pretoria there was very little shooting to be had, but by trekking northwards, to Warm Baths and Nylstroom, in the Waterberg district, some fair sport was met with; and there a party of four of us spent a most enjoyable month.

Meanwhile the 80th Regiment arrived in Natal, and a detachment having been sent up to Utrecht relieved our four companies, which rejoined headquarters at Pretoria, March 28th, 1877. On April 16th, three companies, of which my own was one, marched off to Middelberg and Lydenberg. Sekukuni had broken out once more, and it had been decided to send up an expedition to suppress him. Our three companies were not to go at once to the front, but to afford some protection until an expeditionary force could be assembled. Thus it was that on July 16th, T., W. and myself had the good fortune to start on a trip to the district about the Sabie River, some sixty miles distant from Lydenberg. Operations against Sekukuni were already imminent, and we were lucky in obtaining even a fortnight’s leave under the circumstances. Indeed, it was only three weeks after our return, namely, on August 22nd, that we actually entered upon the campaign.

During our stay at Lydenberg we had been lucky enough to make friends with a Mr. G., of Krugerspost, a British settler, a great sportsman, and a right good fellow. Mr. G. had been in the habit of shooting on the Sabie every season for many years, and upon this occasion very kindly permitted us to join him, he providing everything—waggons, Kaffirs, &c., whilst we merely paid our share of the expenses. Our party consisted of T. and myself, who were already at Lydenberg, and W., who arrived by post-cart from Pretoria the day before we started. In order to economise time the waggons had been sent on three days in advance, but in consequence of a breakdown they had failed to reach their destination, with the result that we caught them up about five miles east of the Spitzkop Goldfields, and about thirty-five from Lydenberg. The waggons were still trekking when we reached them and we continued with them to the outspan about six miles further on. During this last part of the day’s trek W. achieved a reputation as a shot by killing a paauw as it flew overhead about one hundred yards up. W. fired from his horse’s back with an ordinary service Martini-Henry rifle, and the feat was therefore a notable one.

During the next two days we found ourselves rather unprofitably employed in crossing a wide belt of country that had been burned by a party of Boers just before our arrival. We met with lots of spoor of rhino, giraffe, buffalo, &c., but saw nothing except small buck and quaggas, and one troop of hartebeeste. Of these we shot a few, as we wanted meat. During the time we were out on Friday 19th, an old Boer who had attached himself to our party, whilst walking along about a mile from camp, suddenly came upon the fresh spoor of a buffalo, which he proceeded to follow in hopes of a shot. All at once, however, he heard “pooph, pooph” _behind_ him, and in a moment the buffalo had tossed him clean over a small mimosa bush on to another beyond. In the confusion the old man’s rifle went off, and the buffalo, tail on end, sailed away without taking any further notice. The Boer got off without any broken bones; but, as may easily be imagined, not with a whole skin. Mimosa thorns are somewhat retentive, and the descent from that tree, which took some considerable time, was a painful process. Next morning, whilst searching for buffalo, we passed over some of the ground that had been visited the day before in pursuit of the quagga, and found that two carcases had been appropriated by lions, but of the lions themselves we saw nothing, nor did we meet any buffaloes; later, to our great satisfaction, we came upon the fresh spoor of a considerable troop—too late in the day, however, to follow it up.

Starting from camp at daybreak on Sunday, with niggers and dogs, we took up the spoor, and after about two hours reached the spot where a lion had killed a cow buffalo during the night. Jackals or hyenas had had the leavings, and the horns, bones and skin were all that remained. At last, about 10 a.m., the herd was sighted on the other side of a big donga, into which any number of smaller ones ran from both sides. It was a very bad bit of country from every point of view, and the bush in parts was inconveniently thick. However, after a good deal of riding about we got the herd on the move towards the more open veldt—not, indeed until after they had given us a good deal of excitement, sometimes running in view, but more often lost in the bush. Once they had their opportunity, and had they taken advantage of it they might have bagged the whole lot of us, as we crossed a donga in single file not more than a dozen yards from where they were all standing. Having allowed us to cross in safety, the buffalo made off in the opposite direction.

During this time some three or four of the buffalo had fallen before our rifles, and at last out they came across a fine stretch of decently good ground, beyond which was a wet donga with thick bush on the other side. Midway was a small “pan.” I happened to be on the left, and in the best place, with the result that I arrived first over a swell of the ground and saw below me the buffalo in the act of lying down in the pan to cool themselves. My appearance caused a wild commotion, during which, however, I fired one shot off my horse into the back of a big bull just as he was rising, and down he went to my great delight. But I had been very foolish not to dismount: my horse was excited and so was I, with the result that I missed my second barrel. The bull I had hit was struggling below, and just as I was about to get off my horse and give him the _coup de grace_ G. came galloping up. He cried, “don’t finish him, he is quite safe, his back is broken, come on after the others.” I complied, but looking round after I had gone about half a mile I saw my bull on his legs and commencing to make tracks. The donga was only a couple of hundred yards from him, and slowly as he went he was right on the top of it before I came up with him, when he promptly turned to bay. Thirty yards from a wounded buffalo I was discreet enough to take my chance of a shot from the horse’s back. Just as I raised my rifle the bull gave a “pooph, pooph,” and came at me. My horse shook his head and I missed clean. The reins were on the animal’s neck, and before I could gather them he had gone a couple of hundred yards. The bull charged only a very short distance, turned and made for the donga. I returned quickly and jumped off on the bank. I could just see the bull going through the reeds and bush, and whether I hit him or not I cannot say. At all events, I never saw him again. I got another soon afterwards, but this did not comfort me for the loss of a far finer pair of horns. We bagged nine bulls altogether, but none of them so good as the one I had failed to secure. The Kaffirs afterwards tracked that bull for a long way, but eventually lost his spoor in that of the rest of the herd.

Probably the poor brute died later on. My shot must have been close to the spine, since it crippled him for the moment, and may or may not have penetrated his body. Possibly it glanced off his ribs, but at a distance of only about twenty yards this does not seem likely. At all events, he was not brought to bag, and except to the poor bull himself the nature of his wound was therefore of very little consequence.

Meanwhile we had killed a lot of meat, and it took us some time to go round and make all the carcases safe against jackals, vultures, &c. Mr. G. wanted to make biltong, for which purpose he left the Kaffirs on the ground whilst we all rode slowly home to camp.

Next morning we found that both of Mr. G.’s horses had got loose during the night, so that in addition to sending a waggon for the meat, the recovery of the horses—assuming neither to have been eaten by lions—had to be attended to. Mr. G. borrowed one of our horses, and with all remaining Kaffirs, except one, started off; we three staying to guard the camp. It was well that we had not persisted in setting forth ourselves; for had we done so the whole camp would have been burned by a veldt fire. Working frantically, it was all that we could do, after burning the grass behind us, to carry or drag the whole of our belongings to a place of safety. Scarcely had we finished, when the fire came up and went past like an express train. Fortunately the grass in the donga close at hand was green, and therefore escaped, but we had much difficulty in keeping the horses and oxen in it; had they broken away they would of course have galloped for miles before the fire, and some not impossibly have been caught by it.

In the evening Mr. G. returned with his horses, and the waggon also came in laden with meat; the greater part of the latter, however, was useless, owing to the intense heat of the sun and the distance that had been covered in bringing it to camp. Mr. G. regretted much that instead of sending for the meat we had not shifted camp to where the buffalo had been killed.

The following day we had some excellent sport with a troop of wildebeeste which gave us a rare gallop. One of my horses was a grey half-bred Arab and rather fast; the ground was fairly good going, and I made up my mind to try whether I could get alongside for a shot off the horse’s back. To my great delight, after about three miles as hard as we could go, I raced up alongside the bull I had selected, and, firing from the hip, bowled him over like a rabbit, shot through the heart. All things considered, I am certain that next after a fast forty minutes with hounds at home there is nothing to touch a gallop after antelopes in South Africa. With a reasonably good horse it is fairly easy to get within fifty yards, and then jump off and shoot, but only a very smart horse can actually bring you alongside anything except a fat bull eland. The last I believe is easy to catch up with, but I cannot speak of this from personal experience. Riding homewards on the evening of the day I have just mentioned I met T. As a rule, from the moment we started galloping after the first troop of buck we met with, we seldom saw anything more of each other until we had reached the camp. Every man rode his own line towards any point of the compass, and it was long odds against any two of the party afterwards falling in with each other. Well, as we were riding slowly along, T. suddenly exclaimed, “Lions!” and scrambled off his horse. In a moment I was off too, but being a second behind was just late. What I saw as I was about to dismount was a magnificent great lion, accompanied by two lionesses, on the edge of a donga about 120 yards to our left. As I hastily put up my rifle they had turned round and were just disappearing. I pulled the trigger at the lion, and I always think that I was dead on him and must have got him. But, horrible to relate, the rifle was on half-cock! The chance was gone! T. meanwhile had missed. We jumped on to our horses and galloped hard to the donga, but not a sign was to be seen. The lions were no doubt lying down. T. had but one cartridge left, and I had only three; otherwise by shooting at random here and there amongst the tall reeds we might have moved the game. We were only about a mile from camp, and the wind was blowing in that direction, so we were afraid to set fire to the grass. There was, therefore, only one thing to be done, and this we promptly did. We galloped home as fast as we could to fetch Kaffirs and dogs, and get more cartridges. The dogs picked up the line at once, but after following it for about a couple of miles we were obliged to whip off, as it was nearly dark. These were the only lions we saw during the trip. Spoor of them was plentiful and their voices could be heard in the night, but that was all. Lions are very shy and very clever. To get a lion one must, as a rule, trust to the chapter of accidents; looking for them, as we often did upon this and other occasions, a chance seldom comes. Upon the other hand, when game is not plentiful, it is well known that lions make themselves a great nuisance prowling round the camp at night looking for a chance to bag man, horse, or ox, and to keep them off a good fire is very necessary.

A few days afterwards we made an excursion to the border of the “fly” country. Several specimens of the murderous insect settled on various horses, but as we took care to sheer off whenever a fly was seen, no harm was done. A few bites are of no consequence. Here we stumbled upon the camp of a Mr. S. whom we had seen at Pretoria months before, but not since. He had been trekking all over the place, and it was rather remarkable our meeting with him. He had had good sport in the “fly” country, into which he had gone with a light kit and a few Kaffirs to carry it. Finally, after a number of quite enjoyable days’ sport, during which, however, nothing really remarkable took place, the time came for us to return to Lydenburg. We had for the last three days been working towards home, and in the end had only some sixty miles to ride. Leaving the waggons to follow, we started at daybreak, and reached Lydenburg in good time for dinner.

There is one matter to which it is worth while to call attention, in reference to life on the veldt. It is wonderful how quickly and accurately the “homing instinct” becomes developed. Every morning Mr. G. would explain to us that the waggons would trek during the course of the day to the banks of a certain river, or to a pool of water, say twenty miles distant, in a direction that he pointed out. There might or might not be some guiding landmark. Within a couple of hours it would certainly have happened that no two of the party were together. All would have ridden in various directions, wherever the game led them. Yet throughout the trip not one of us ever failed to find the waggon in the evening! The nearest approach to any one being lost was when W., actually heading straight for camp, was overtaken by the darkness when still about a mile distant. He was just about to light a fire when, becoming anxious about him, we began to fire shots to attract his attention; he replied, and twenty minutes later walked in. Of course, I must admit that this was not our first trip, and that we had all of us ridden about the veldt a good deal during the previous two years. Yet this power of finding the way from a place that one had necessarily but slight knowledge of to another, fifteen or twenty miles distant, that one had never seen at all, and there find, in the bush, a waggon, is sufficiently remarkable. Clearly the result was not dependent upon reasoning, not upon ordinary “lump of locality,” but simply upon _instinct_. It should be remembered that this was not a case of riding straight for a point; upon the contrary, one had been galloping hither and thither, and not until the afternoon was the horse’s head directed homewards, where, as a rule, all arrived before dark.

At the risk of being tedious I will quote an example of “homing instinct” that in my opinion is rather curious. A year before the trip which I have been writing about, I was one of a party of four shooting in the Waterberg district. The ponies belonging to F. and myself were both in need of a day’s rest, and F. and I walked with the others to a place where some game had been killed the day before, in order to get the horns and send them to camp, carried by Kaffirs. This done, F. and I took a line through the bush with the idea of looking for guinea-fowls, and after shooting a few to walk home. We had been about two hours on our way when I was seized with a conviction that we had arrived close home, and I said so. F. instantly replied that he had been just about to make the same remark. The bush was very thick, and it was impossible to see more than fifty yards. We agreed that F. should stand where he was whilst I made a cast to the right. Two hundred yards brought me to the open ground, and there by the waterhole, a hundred and fifty yards away, was the waggon! This find was clearly due to instinct and nothing else; we were neither of us prompted in the very least by any familiar feature. All around us was bush of precisely the same character.

Perhaps even more remarkable was the power of finding next day the carcase of a buck killed during the course of the previous day, perhaps ten miles from camp, and covered where it lay with a few branches to keep off the vultures and jackals. We ourselves, I admit, sometimes failed in this, but G. never; nor did a Boer called B. who guided our party to the Waterberg. Yet how strange it is that men who have been on the veldt more years than we spent months, and who year after year have been doing as I have described, have yet been lost hopelessly and died miserably of thirst! In a word, however practised the instinct, it must not be trusted always. The golden rule, I have been told, to follow when lost is to sit down, light a fire, discharge your rifle from time to time, if you can spare the cartridges, and there wait until some of your party find you. To advance, once you have ceased to feel certain that you are going the right way, is fatal. To attempt walking in the dark when not absolutely sure of the direction almost always ends in wandering in a circle.

South Africa in the seventies was not a bad place for sport, but what must it have been in the fifties! A certain Colonel B., late of the 45th Regiment, told us, in Maritzburg in 1876, that twenty years before he had shot _elephants_ within a day’s ride of Durban. In our day there was just one elephant south of the Zambesi; it was in Zululand, and poor Guy Dawnay, one of the best fellows and one of the best sportsmen that ever lived, killed it in 1875 or 1876—I cannot remember which. Ten years later poor Dawnay was himself killed by a wounded buffalo. This rather disjointed yarn has now reached the useful limit, and must therefore end.

A Song of Homage.

Along the country lanes I bear her gaily,
Between deep hedgerows where the wild flowers spring,
Where hawthorn blooms, where trees grow greener daily,
And mounting skylarks sing.

Nature thus decked in glorious robes, forgetting
The sombre weeds of winter laid aside,
Makes for my mistress but a proper setting
When she goes forth to ride.

For she so young and fair, yet never thinking
How fair, gives promise of more wondrous grace,
With kind grey eyes from wells of sunshine drinking,
Set in a perfect face.

I, Blacky, am her slave, well-groomed and sightly,
Who loves—nay life without it were a blank—
The feeling of her habit flapping lightly
Against my shining flank.

I am her willing slave; in doing blindly
Her smallest pleasure lies my pleasure too,
Content because she ever treats me kindly
As friend and comrade true.

How could I be a rogue with her or idle?
Nay, how could horse do aught except rejoice
To feel a hand so gentle on the bridle,
To hear so sweet a voice?

And often when I stand at leisure feeding,
Shut in my box, from all excitement barred,
I catch the sound of welcome footsteps speeding
Across the stable-yard.

“Blacky,” she calls; I whinny as she presses
Her face to mine with words I understand,
While, mingling with the sweets of her caresses,
Comes sugar from her hand.

BLACKY.

Herod Blood.

During the last few years there has been a great deal written on this subject. It has been put forward that the necessity exists in England for the resuscitation of the male line of Herod; that this blood is gradually declining in prominence not only in England but in all other countries where thoroughbreds exist; and that, if breeders do not tackle the question seriously, the probability will be that Herod in the male line will become extinct.

Now, although it is an undoubted fact that the male line of Herod is gradually being pushed on one side by the descendants of Eclipse, it does not seem that that fact _alone_ is a sufficient argument in favour of an attempt to reinstate the blood in the position which it once held. It is a curious fact that although the male line of Herod is slowly dying out, while the male line of Eclipse is becoming so prominent, yet that if the pedigree of any horse of the present day be carefully examined it will be found that the blood of Herod predominates in the most marked degree. For instance, the pedigree of St. Simon contains ninety-one crosses of Eclipse, and no less than one hundred and forty-six of Herod, and there is not a single thoroughbred horse living to-day which does not possess a greater number of Herod crosses than of Eclipse. And this is true not only of the horses of to-day but of the horses of one hundred years ago.

Yet, in spite of this, the male line of Eclipse since the year 1800 has been successful in seventy Derbies as compared with twenty-five won by representatives of the Herod male line. In the Oaks sixty-two winners are sired by direct male descendants of Eclipse, while only twenty-eight can be claimed by Herod during the same period. Nor is the superiority confined to the winners of these races themselves. If we take the pedigree of the dams of Derby winners we find that the dams in fifty-five instances are got by Eclipse horses, and in only thirty-six cases by Herod horses. Putting the same test to Oaks winners, we find fifty-nine of them got by Eclipse horses and thirty-five by Herod horses.

Derbies Oaks St. Legers Total
St. Simon (E) 2 5 4 11
Sir Peter (H), 1784 4 2 4 10
Stockwell (E), 1849 3 1 6 10
Highflyer (H), 1774 3 1 4 8
Melbourne (M), 1834 2 3 2 7
Waxy (E), 1790 4 3 – 7
Touchstone (E), 1831 3 1 3 7
Isonomy (E), 1875 2 1 3 6
Pot-8-os (E), 1773 3 1 1 5
Sorcerer (M), 1796 1 3 1 5
Birdcatcher (E), 1836 1 1 3 5
King Tom (E), 1851 1 3 1 5
Lord Clifden (E), 1860 – 1 4 5
Eclipse, 1764 3 1 – 4
Herod, 1758 – 3 1 4
Florizel (H) 2 – 2 4
Whalebone (E), 1807 3 1 – 4
Adventurer (E), 1869 1 2 1 4
Buccaneer (H), 1859 1 2 1 4
Emilius (E), 1820 2 1 1 4
Hermit (E), 1864 2 2 – 4
Hampton (E), 1872 3 1 – 4
Scud (E), 1804 2 1 – 3
Bay Middleton (H), 1833 2 – 1 3
Justice (H), 1774 2 1 – 3
Tramp (E), 1810 2 – 1 3
Phantom (H), 1808 2 1 1 3
Orville (E), 1799 2 – 1 3
Newminster (E), 1848 2 1 – 3
Whiskey (E), 1789 1 2 – 3
Selim (H), 1802 1 2 – 3
Velocipede (E), 1825 1 1 1 3
Muley (E), 1810 1 1 1 3
Sultan (H), 1816 1 2 – 3
Volunteer (E), 1780 1 2 – 3
Blair Athol (E), 1861 1 – 2 3
Voltaire (E), 1826 1 – 2 3
Sweetmeat (H), 1842 1 2 – 3
Barcaldine (M), 1878 1 1 1 3
Woful (E), 1809 – 2 1 3
King Fergus (E), 1775 – – 3 3
Priam (E), 1827 – 3 – 3
Beninghough (E), 1791 – 2 1 3
Petrarch (E), 1873 – 2 1 3
Macaroni (H), 1860 – 3 – 3
Gallinule (E), 1884 – 1 2 3

The above table shows a list of the horses that have sired three or more classic winners, _i.e._, Derby, Oaks, and St. Leger. The letters E, H, and M after a horse’s name denotes whether it is of (E) Eclipse, (H) Herod, or (M) Matchem descent in the male line.

This list, which covers a period from the birth of Herod to the present day, contains forty-six names, of which thirty-one are male descendants of Eclipse, and only twelve of Herod.

The following horses have headed the list of winning stallions since 1850:—

Epirus (H), Orlando (E), Birdcatcher (E), Melbourne (M), Touchstone (E), Newminster (E), Stockwell (E), Buccaneer (H), Thormanby (H), King Tom (E), Blair Athol (E), Adventurer (E), Lord Clifden (E), Speculum (E), Flageolet (E), Hermit (E), Hampton (E), Galopin (E), St. Simon (E), Kendal (E), Orme (E), Persimmon (E), St. Frusquin (E), Gallinule (E).

From this it will be gathered that Herod horses have headed the list in three years, Matchem one year, while Eclipse horses monopolise all the other years.

So we now have the following facts, that although Eclipse horses have won the Derby, Leger, and Oaks nearly twice as often as Herod horses, and have sired the dams of the winners of these races in about the same proportion, and have further headed the list of winning sires almost without break for the last fifty years, yet in the pedigree of every one of these Eclipse horses mentioned above the name of Herod occurs oftener than that of Eclipse.

Now, surely it is very significant that although all our thoroughbred horses of the present day possess more crosses of Herod blood than Eclipse blood, yet the Herod male line is being slowly and surely pushed out by the Eclipse male line. One might almost regard it as a logical consequence that the extra crosses of Herod should give the Herod male line an increased strength and prepotency, but, as a fact, we find the exact opposite to this is the case.

A few illustrations taken from contemporaneous sires will best explain the force of this. For instance, let us take Whalebone and Phantom, winners of the Derby in consecutive years, 1807 and 1808. Whalebone, a direct descendant of Eclipse in tail male, contained one cross only of Eclipse and two crosses of Herod. Phantom, a descendant of Herod in the male line, contained four crosses of Herod and two of Eclipse. Phantom to-day has very few tail male representatives at the stud, while Whalebone is represented by the whole of the Newminster and Stockwell line, backed up by the Isonomy line in later days. A comparison between Birdcatcher and his nearest Herod contemporary, Bay Middleton, works out with much the same result. Birdcatcher’s pedigree contains four crosses of Eclipse and nine crosses of Herod; Bay Middleton six of Eclipse and thirteen of Herod. Yet we have to go to France to find any prominent representatives of the Bay Middleton male line; while two Birdcatcher horses (Isinglass and Gallinule) are top of the list of winning sires to-day.

All these facts would seem to go to prove that in spite of the preponderance of Herod blood in our horses, in spite of the occasional prominence of individual members of the Herod male line, there is some natural force which is always working to place the Eclipse male line on top. It is quite evident that the male line of Eclipse cannot be “swamped,” and that the blood gets stronger and stronger the older it grows.

Many contemporary writers on the history of thoroughbred horses have commented on this ascendancy of the Eclipse male line, and some have attempted to account for it by ascribing it to chance and fashion. Mr. W. Allison, in his interesting book, “The British Thoroughbred,” devotes a whole chapter to the subject, and is quite satisfied that the “great success of Eclipse is due to Sir Hercules, Camel, and fashion.” He also points out the necessity which seems to exist of reviving the blood. But just how this revival is to be effected is what is puzzling, and always will puzzle, breeders.

Perhaps the most feasible explanation of why the Herod blood in the male line is dying out, and why the Eclipse male line is so preponderant, can be found in a close analysis of the pedigrees of the two horses, and by comparing the results with the conditions which prevail among horses in their natural state. It will then be found that the dying-out of the Herod line is more a working out of the laws of Nature than anything else, and is probably beyond human control.

Let us first take the pedigree of a wild horse, and see how he is made up. It may seem an anomaly to talk of the pedigree of a wild horse, but every animal has a pedigree if we could but trace it. The horse in a state of Nature is a gregarious animal, living in herds or groups, each group having its premier stallion, who is literally “lord of the harem.” A stallion remains at the head of his group until he gets too old to be effective, and he is then driven away by one of the younger stallions, probably one of his own sons. In a wild state the mare breeds young, dropping her foal when about three years old. A wild stallion will probably remain vigorous and capable of holding his own until ten or twelve years old. He will then probably be breeding with his own daughters and possibly granddaughters. When he is ousted and his son reigns in his stead, he in his turn will be cohabiting with his sisters, aunts, and cousins, until eventually you have the whole herd very much in-bred. In fact, the wild horse is a very much more in-bred animal than the tame horse, and Nature evidently intends the horse to be an in-bred animal.

Now let us take the pedigrees of Herod and Eclipse, and analyse them. Without going too deeply into detail, which might be bewildering to those unskilled in pedigree lore, it will be sufficient to state broadly that Herod is a cross-bred or out-bred horse; while Eclipse is an in-bred one. We have to go back six generations in Herod’s pedigree before we get the same name occurring twice, as that of Spanker, and the same name occurs in the seventh and eighth generations. Herod, therefore, has four crosses of Spanker, and no other instances of in-breeding. Eclipse, on the other hand, has crosses of Hautboy at his fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth removes—nine of them in all—while he also possesses seven crosses of Spanker.

A curious point about the pedigrees of both Herod and Eclipse is that this same Spanker blood has been handed down to us through only one channel, and that by the incestuous mating of Spanker and his dam. The produce of this mare was the grand-dam of Betty Leedes, who in her turn was the dam of the two Childers. This piece of incestuous breeding seems to have been the rock on which the British thoroughbred was built, for it will be found, on examining all the old pedigrees, that their strength lies in their in-breeding to the two Childers (the No. 6 family).

We have already seen that the wild horse is incestuously in-bred, and we know that, of Herod and Eclipse, the latter was the more incestuously in-bred of the two. Does it not seem, then, a simple working out of the laws of Nature that the Eclipse male line should be more prepotent than the Herod male line, bearing as it does, though artificially produced, a closer resemblance to the breeding of the horse in a state of Nature?

The fact that Herod’s name occurs more often than that of Eclipse in modern pedigrees would seem to go to strengthen this theory, for the Herod blood is more diluted, so to speak, than that of Eclipse, and seems unable to resist the concentrated force of the more incestuously in-bred Eclipse line.

S. C. BURKE.

The Last of the Bitterns.

Although the hawthorn in the valley was opening its leaves and disclosing the rosy-tipped buds of May, there were but few signs of returning spring on the marshlands of the mountain slope. The scanty grass was withered with the searching winds of winter, and the wild thyme had scarcely yet begun to creep over the lichened stones; but through the entanglement of beaten-down reeds and rushes by the waterside fresh green spikes were pushing their way up to the light. Here and there some flecks of gold enlivened the whin bushes, and, far away in the distant valley, a thrush was singing. The song floated up the still air of the valley as the blue mists of the late afternoon paled into the evening grey; the last flush of sunset faded over the rugged mountains of the west, and the melancholy marshland sank into the shadows of the coming night. Then the thrush’s song died in the gathering darkness, and all was still, save for the bark of some shepherd’s dog in the distance and the faint murmur of a trout stream—sounds that only seemed to intensify the quietude.

Suddenly the desolate marsh was awakened by a ringing, booming voice that pierced the misty darkness and vibrated in the still air. No echo followed that weird, mysterious call, that deep metallic ring, “as when a bell no longer swings,” but the desolation of the moors seemed the more desolate as I listened and wondered what the sound might be. The night hugged the silence, Nature held her breath, until again that lonely booming voice broke the stillness and died in a tone of despairing lament. Passion was in the voice, and love; a challenge was there, yet a sublimity and a loneliness that haunted the very breath of spring. Once more the vibrating tones were swallowed up by the darkness, but once again they pierced the night air and rang in a cadence of passionate, deep-toned booms that shook “the sounding marsh” and awakened the desolate places of the sleeping earth. Even as the lightning smites the heavy laden cloud and disperses it in drops of rain, so that penetrating voice struck the brooding darkness of the moor, and the abiding peace, in little fragments, was shattered and forgotten in a multitude of thoughts.

Those who are acquainted with the bird-life of our islands need not be told that the deep-toned, booming cry of the last of the bitterns was heard a very long while ago. Marshes have been drained and rough lands cleared, cornfields and rich pastures cover the earth which once swayed and rustled with bulrushes and tasselled reeds, and the birds and flowers—the aborigines of the marshlands—have been driven away from their old haunts. Yet one would not stay the cultivator’s hand that the secluded retreat of the bittern might be left undisturbed. Time brings many changes, and the well-cleared dyke, the uprooted reeds and willows, the burning of scrubby wastes, were inevitable, and once the nesting place—the home of a species—is taken away extinction becomes a matter of years. So the noble bittern that stalked heron-like in the shallow pools and streams of the fens and marshes, whose pencilled plumage of rich browns of varying shades blended so beautifully with the surroundings, and whose weird notes resounded in the spring nights of long ago, year after year, became a less frequent visitor. It is probably twenty-five years or more since the last love-song of the bittern was answered, and some eggs were laid, in the land that it had inhabited for so long. Now some few stragglers drift into our shores, but the booming note—the love-song only uttered at nesting time—is no longer heard, and those lonely migrants that casually seek refuge here only too quickly fall a prey to the loafer’s gun.

But there is no reason to suppose why, if suitable places—

Not where along unlovely ways
The roaring tide of trouble flows—