Chapter II: Part 2

"I guess Old Blacky's tussle with the lightning left him hungry; he's eating up one side of the feed-box."

Then we laughed at the strange noise, and in a few minutes, the rain having almost ceased, we put on our rubber boots and went out to look after the other horses. Old Browny we found in the lee of the sod house, not exactly asleep, but evidently about to take a nap. The pony had pulled up her picket-pin and retreated to a little hollow a hundred yards away. We caught her and brought her back. By the light of the lantern we found that the great stroke of lightning had struck the curb of the well, shattering it, and making a hole in the ground beside it. The storm had gone muttering off to the north, and the stars were again shining overhead.

"What a stroke of lightning that must have been to do that!" said Ollie, as he looked at the curb with some awe.

"It wasn't the lightning that did that," returned his truthful Uncle Jack. "That's where Old Blacky kicked at the lightning and missed it."

Then we returned to the wagon and went to bed. The next morning at ten o'clock we drove into Yankton. We found the ferry-boat disabled, and that we would have to go forty miles up the river to Running Water before we could cross. We drove a mile out of town, and went into camp on a high bank overlooking the milky, eddying current of the Missouri.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.

BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.

CHAPTER XI.

One night, some days after this, George was awakened in the middle of the night by hearing persons stirring in the house. He rose, and slipping on his clothes, softly opened his door. Laurence Washington, fully dressed, was standing in the hall.

"What is the matter, brother?" asked George.

"The child Mildred is ill," answered Laurence, in much agitation. "It seems to be written that no child of mine shall live. Dr. Craik has been sent for, but he is so long in coming that I am afraid she will die before he reaches here."

"I will fetch him, brother," said George, in a resolute manner. "I will go for Dr. Craik, and if I cannot get him I will go to Alexandria for another doctor."

He ran down stairs and to the stable, and in five minutes he had saddled the best horse in the stable and was off for Dr. Craik's, five miles away. As he galloped on through the darkness, plunging through the snow, and taking all the short-cuts he could find, his heart stood still for fear the little girl might die. He loved her dearly--all her baby ways and childish fondness for himself coming back to him with the sharpest pain--and his brother and sister, whose hopes were bound up in her. George thought, if the child's life could be spared, he would give more than he could tell.

He reached Dr. Craik's after a hard ride. The barking of the dogs, as he rode into the yard, wakened the doctor, and he came to the door with a candle in his hand, and in his dressing-gown. In a few words George told his business, and begged the doctor to start at once for Mount Vernon. No message had been received, and at that very time the negro messenger, who had mistaken the road, was at least five miles off, going in the opposite direction.

"How am I to get to Mount Vernon?" asked the doctor. "As you know, I keep only two horses. One I lent to a neighbor yesterday, and to-night, when I got home from my round, my other horse was dead lame."

"Ride this horse back!" cried George. "I can walk easily enough; but there must be a doctor at Mount Vernon to-night. If you could have seen my brother's face--I did not see my poor sister, but--"

"Very well," answered the doctor, coolly. "I never delay a moment when it is possible to get to a patient; and if you will trudge the five miles home I will be at Mount Vernon as soon as this horse can take me there."

Dr. Craik went into the house to get his saddle-bags, and in a few minutes he appeared, fully prepared, and mounting the horse, started for Mount Vernon at a sharp canter.

George set out on his long and disagreeable tramp. He was a good walker, but the snow troubled him, and it was nearly daylight before he found himself in sight of the house. Lights were moving about, and, with a sinking heart, George felt a presentiment that his little playmate was hovering between life and death. When he entered the hall he found a fire burning, and William Fairfax standing by it. No one had slept at Mount Vernon that night. George was weary, and wet up to his knees, but his first thought was for little Mildred.

"She is still very ill, I believe," said William. "Dr. Craik came, and Cousin Anne met him at the door, and she burst into tears. The doctor said you were walking back, and Cousin Anne said, 'I will always love George the better for this night.'"

George went softly up the stairs and listened at the nursery door. He tapped, and Betty opened the door a little. He could see the child's crib drawn up to the fire, the doctor hanging over it, while the poor father and mother clung together a little way off.

"She is no worse," whispered Betty.

With this sorry comfort George went to his room and changed his clothes. As he came down stairs he saw his brother and sister go down before him for a little respite after their long watch; but on reaching the hall no one was there but William Fairfax, standing in the same place before the hearth. George went up and began to warm his chilled limbs. Then William made the most indiscreet speech of his life--one of those things which, uninspired by malice, and the mere outspoken word of a heedless person, are yet capable of doing infinite harm and causing extreme pain.

"George," said he, "you know if Mildred dies you will get Mount Vernon and all your brother's fortune."

George literally glared at William. His temper, naturally violent, blazed within him, and his nerves, through fatigue and anxiety and his long walk, not being under his usual control, he felt capable of throttling William where he stood.

"Do you mean to say--do you think that I want my brother's child to die?--that I--"

George spoke in a voice of concentrated rage that frightened William, who could only stammer, "I thought--perhaps--I--I--"

The next word was lost, for George, hitting out from the shoulder, struck William full in the chest, who fell over as if he had been shot.

The blow brought back George's reason. He stood amazed and ashamed at his own violence and folly. William rose without a word, and looked him squarely in the eye; he was conscious that his words, though foolish, did not deserve a blow. He was no match physically for George, but he was not in the least afraid of him. Some one else, however, besides the two boys had witnessed the scene. Laurence Washington, quietly opening wide a door that had been ajar, walked into the hall, followed by his wife, and said, calmly:

"George, did I not see you strike a most unmanly blow just now--a blow upon a boy smaller than yourself, a guest in this house, and at a time when such things are particularly shocking?"

George, his face as pale as death, and unable to raise his eyes from the floor, replied, in a low voice, "Yes, brother, and I think I was crazy for a moment. I ask William's pardon, and yours, and my sister's--"

Laurence continued to look at him with stern and, as George felt, just displeasure; but Mrs. Washington came forward, and, laying her hand on his shoulder, said, sweetly:

"You were very wrong, George; but I heard it all, and I do not believe that anything could make you wish our child to die. Your giving up your horse to the doctor shows how much you love her, and I, for one, forgive you for what you have done."

"Thank you, sister," answered George; but he could not raise his eyes. He had never in all his life felt so ashamed of himself. In a minute or two he recovered himself, and held out his hand to William.

"I was wrong too, George," said William; "I ought not to have said what I did, and I am willing to be friends again."

The two boys shook hands, and without one word each knew that he had a friend forever in the other one. And presently Dr. Craik came down stairs, saying cheerfully to Mrs. Washington,

"Madam, your little one is asleep, and I think the worst is past."

For some days the child continued ill, and George's anxiety about her, his wish to do something for her in spite of his boyish incapacity to do so, showed how fond he was of her. She began to mend, however, and George was delighted to find that she was never better satisfied than when carried about in his strong young arms. William Fairfax, who was far from being a foolish fellow, in spite of his silly speech, grew to be heartily ashamed of the suspicion that George would be glad to profit by the little girl's death when he saw how patiently George would amuse her hour after hour, and how willingly he would give up his beloved hunting and shooting to stay with her.

In the early part of January the time came when George and Betty must return to Ferry Farm. George went the more cheerfully, as he imagined it would be his last visit to his mother before joining his ship. Laurence was also of this opinion, and George's warrant as midshipman had been duly received. He had written to Madam Washington of Admiral Vernon's offer, but he had received no letter from her in reply. This, however, he supposed was due to Madam Washington's expectation of soon seeing George, and he thought her consent absolutely certain.

On a mild January morning George and Betty left Mount Vernon for home in a two-wheeled chaise, which Laurence Washington sent as a present to his step-mother. In the box under the seat were packed Betty's white sarcenet silk and George's clothes, including three smart uniforms. The possession of these made George feel several years older than William Fairfax, who started for school the same day. The rapier which Lord Fairfax had given him, and his midshipman's dirk, which he considered his most valuable belongings, were rather conspicuously displayed against the side of the chaise; for George was but a boy, after all, and delighted in these evidences of his approaching manhood. His precious commission was in his breast pocket. Billy was to travel on the trunk-rack behind the chaise, and was quite content to dangle his legs from Mount Vernon to Ferry Farm, while Rattler trotted along beside them. Usually it was a good day's journey, but in winter, when the roads were bad, it was necessary to stop over a night on the way. It had been determined to make this stop at the home of Colonel Fielding Lewis, an old friend of both Madam Washington and Laurence Washington.

All of the Mount Vernon family, white and black, were assembled on the porch, directly after breakfast, to say good-by to the young travellers. William Fairfax, on horseback, was to start in another direction. Little Mildred, in her black mammy's arms, was kept in the hall, away from the raw winter air. Betty kissed her a dozen times, and cried a little; but when George took her in his arms, and, after holding her silently to his breast, handed her back to her mammy, the little girl clung to him and cried so piteously, that George had to unlock her baby arms from around his neck and run away.

On the porch his brother and sister waited for him, and Laurence said:

"I desire you, George, to deliver the chaise to your mother, from me, with my respectful compliments, and to hope that she will soon make use of it to visit us at Mount Vernon. For yourself, let me hear from you by the first hand. The _Bellona_ will be in the Chesapeake within a month, and probably up this river, and you are now prepared to join at a moment's notice."

George's heart was too full for many words, but his flushed and beaming face showed how pleased he was at the prospect. Laurence, however, could read George's boyish heart very well, and smiled at the boy's delight. Both Betty and himself kissed and thanked their sister for her kindness, and, after they had said good-by to William, and shook hands with all the house-servants, the chaise rattled off.

Betty had by nature one of the sunniest tempers in the world, and, instead of going back glumly and unwillingly to her modest home after the gayeties and splendors of Mount Vernon, congratulated herself on having had so merry a time, and was full of gratitude to her mother for allowing her to come. And then she was alone with George, and had a chance to ask him dozens of things that she had not thought of in the bustle at Mount Vernon; so the two drove along merrily. Betty chattering a good deal, and George talking much more than he usually did.

They reached Barn Elms before sunset, and met with a cordial welcome from Colonel Lewis and the large family of children and guests that could always be found in the Virginia country-houses of those days. At supper a long table was filled, mostly with merry young people. Among them was young Fielding Lewis, a handsome fellow a little older than George, and there was also Miss Martha Dandridge, the handsome young lady with whom George had danced Sir Roger de Coverley on Christmas night at Mount Vernon. In the evening the drawing-room floor was cleared, and everybody danced, Colonel Lewis himself, a portly gentleman of sixty, leading off the rigadoon with Betty, which George again danced with Martha Dandridge. They had so merry a time that they were sorry to leave next morning. Colonel Lewis urged them to stay, but George felt they must return home, more particularly as it was the first time that he and Betty had been trusted to make a journey alone.

All that day they travelled, and about sunset, when within five miles of home, a tire came off one of the wheels of the new chaise, and they had to stop at a blacksmith's shop on the road-side to have it mended. Billy, however, was sent ahead to tell their mother that they were coming, and George was in hopes that Billy's sins would be overlooked, considering the news he brought, and the delightful excitement of the meeting.

The blacksmith was slow, and the wheel was in a bad condition, so it was nearly eight o'clock of a January night before they were in the gate at Ferry Farm. It was wide open, the house was lighted up, and in the doorway stood Madam Washington and the three little boys. Every negro, big and little, on the place was assembled, and shouts of "Howdy, Marse George! Howdy, Miss Betty!" resounded. The dogs barked with pleasure at recognizing George and Betty, and the commotion was great.

As soon as they reached the door Betty jumped out, before the chaise came to a standstill, and rushed into her mother's arms. She was quickly followed by George, who, much taller than his mother, folded her in a close embrace, and then the boys were hugged and kissed. Madam Washington led him into the house, and looked him all over with pride and delight, he was so grown, so manly; his very walk had acquired a new grace, such as comes from association with graceful and polished society. She was brimming with pride, but she only allowed herself to say,

"How much you have grown, my son!"

"And the chaise is yours, mother," struck in Betty. "Brother Laurence sent it to you--all lined inside with green damask, and a stuffed seat, and room for a trunk behind, and a box under the seat."

George rather resented this on Betty's part, as he thought he had the first right to make so important an announcement as the gift of a chaise, and said, with a severe look at Betty:

"My brother sent it you, mother, with his respectful compliments, and hopes that the first use you will make of it will be to visit him and my sister at Mount Vernon."

Betty, however, was in no mood to be set back by a trifling snub like that, so she at once plunged into a description of the gayeties at Mount Vernon. This was interrupted by supper, which had been kept for them, and then it was nine o'clock, and Betty was nearly falling asleep, and George, too, was tired, and it was the hour for family prayers. For the first time in months George read prayers at his mother's request, and she added a special thanksgiving for the return of her two children in health and happiness, and then it was bedtime. Madam Washington had not once mentioned his midshipman's warrant to George. This did not occur to him until he was in bed, and then, with the light heart of youth, he dismissed it as a mere accident. No doubt she was as proud as he, although the parting would be hard on both, but it must come in some form or other, and no matter how long or how far, they could never love each other any less--and George fell asleep to dream that he was carrying the _Bellona_ into action in the most gallant style possible.

Next morning he was up and on horseback early, riding over the place, and thinking with half regret and half joy that he would soon be far away from the simple plantation life. At breakfast Betty talked so incessantly and the little boys were so full of questions that Madam Washington had no opportunity for serious talk, but as soon as it was over she said,

"Will you come to my room, George?"

"In a minute, mother," answered George, rising and darting up stairs.

He would show himself to her in his uniform. He had the natural pride in it that might have been expected, and, as he slipped quickly into it, and put the dashing cap on his fair hair, and stuck his dirk into his belt, he could not help a thrill of boyish vanity. He went straight to his mother's room, where she stood awaiting him.

The first glance at her face struck a chill to his heart. There was a look of pale and quiet determination upon it that was far from encouraging. Nevertheless, George spoke up promptly.

"My warrant, mother, is upstairs, sent me, as my brother wrote you, by Admiral Vernon. And my brother, out of his kindness, had all my outfit made for me in Alexandria. I am to join the _Bellona_ frigate within the month."

"Will you read this letter, my son?" was Madam Washington's answer, handing him a letter.

George took it from her. He recognized the handwriting of his uncle, Joseph Ball, in England. It ran, after the beginning: "'I understand you are advised and have some thoughts of putting your son George to sea.'" George stopped in surprise, and looked at his mother.

"I suppose," she said, quietly, "that he has heard that your brother Laurence mentioned to me months ago that you wished to join the King's land or sea service, but my brother's words are singularly apt now."

George continued to read.

"'I think he had better be put apprentice to a tinker, for a common sailor before the mast has by no means the common liberty of the subject, for they will press him from ship to ship, where he has fifty shillings a month, and make him take twenty-three, and cut and slash and use him like a dog.'"

George read this with amazement.

"My uncle evidently does not understand that I never had any intention of going to sea as a common sailor," he said, his face flushing, "and I am astonished that he should think such a thing."

"Read on," said his mother, quietly.

"'And as to any considerable preferment in the navy, it is not to be expected, as there are so many gaping for it here who have interest, and he has none.'"

George folded the letter, and handed it back to his mother respectfully.

"Forgive me, mother," said he, "but I think my uncle Joseph a very ignorant man, and especially ignorant of my prospects in life!"

"George!" cried his mother, reproachfully.

George remained silent. He saw coming an impending conflict, the first of their lives, between his mother and himself.

"My brother," said Madam Washington, after a pause, "is a man of the world. He knows much more than I, a woman who has seen but little of it, and much more than a youth like you, George."

"He does not know better than my brother, who has been the best and kindest of brothers, who thought he was doing me the greatest service in getting me this warrant, and who, at his own expense, prepared me for it."

Both mother and son spoke calmly, and even quietly, but two red spots burned in Madam Washington's face, while George felt himself growing whiter every moment.

"Your brother, doubtless, meant kindly towards you, and for that I shall be ever grateful; but I never gave my consent--I shall never give it," she said.

"I am sorry to hear you say that, mother," answered George, presently--"more sorry than I know how to say. For, although you are my dear and honored mother, you cannot choose my life for me, provided the life I choose is respectable, and I live honestly and like a gentleman, as I always shall, I hope."

The mother and son faced each other, pale and determined. It struck home to Madam Washington that she could not now clip her eaglet's wings. She asked, in a low voice,

"Do you intend to disobey me, my son?"

"Don't force me to do it, mother!" cried George, losing his calmness, and becoming deeply agitated, "I think my honor is engaged to my brother and Admiral Vernon, and I feel in my heart that I have a right to choose my own future course. I promise you that I will never discredit you; but I cannot--I cannot obey you in this."

"You do refuse, then, my son?" said Madam Washington. She spoke in a low voice, and her beautiful eyes looked straight into George's as if challenging him to resist her influence; but George, although his own eyes filled with tears, yet answered her gently,

"Mother, I must."

Madam Washington said no more, but turned away from him. The boy's heart and mind were in a whirl. Some involuntary power seemed compelling him to act as he did, without any volition on his part. Suddenly his mother turned, with tears streaming down her face, and, coming swiftly towards him, clasped him in her arms.

"My son, my best-loved child!" she cried, weeping. "Do not break my heart by leaving me. I did not know until this moment how much I loved you. It is hard for a parent to plead with a child, but I beg, I implore you, if you have any regard for your mother's peace of mind, to give up the sea." And with sobs and tears, such as George had never before seen her shed, she clung to him, and covered his face and hair and even his hands with kisses.

The boy stood motionless, stunned by an outbreak of emotion so unlike anything he had ever seen in his mother before. Calm, reticent, and undemonstrative, she had showed a Spartan firmness in her treatment of her children until this moment. In a flash like lightning George saw that it was not that foolish letter which had influenced her, but there was a fierceness of mother-love, all unsuspected in that deep and quiet nature, for him, and for him alone. This trembling, sobbing woman, calling him all fond names, and saying to him, "George, I would go upon my knees if that would move you," his mother! And the appeal overpowered him as much by its novelty as its power. Like her he began to tremble, and when she saw this she held him closer to her, and cried, "Will you abandon me, or will you abandon your own will this once?"

There was a short pause, and then George spoke, in a voice he scarcely knew, it was so strange,

"Mother, I will give up my commission."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

THE POLO PONY.

BY J. CONOVER.

The polo pony is becoming such an important and conspicuous feature in modern life that a short article upon his nature, training, and habits may be interesting to those who either hope to make his acquaintance on his native range, or to import him for use in riding or driving, or in playing that most exciting of all games.

The bicycle is said to be driving horseflesh out of the market, that good horses, even thoroughbreds, are being _canned_ by the thousand, and sent to all parts of the world. This may be a necessary and practical use to which to put that noble animal, the friend and companion of man from all ages; but one cannot help being thankful that the pony has so far escaped this fate, and that the demand for these singularly intelligent, plucky little beasts is growing rather than diminishing.

So long as there are cattle ranges the cow pony will be a necessity. One could not "round up" or "cut out" or "rope" or "corral" on a bicycle or from a self-propelling carriage of any kind, and even if this dreadful day should come and the cow pony lose his prestige, the polo pony will still have his place in the world of sport, from which the most modern and improved wheel could never dispossess him. The cow pony or polo pony, like the poet and the athlete, is born, not made. Out of a drove of a hundred ponies there may be only twenty-five or less that are good for anything, who have the instinct of sport, the quick eye, steady foot, the grit and endurance of the true sportsman.

A good cow pony is good from the start. He learns, of course, much by experience, but he is not only first-class "material," as they say of football candidates, but a star player from the very first. Running wild with the mares, their mothers, on the big ranges of Texas, Mexico, Montana, and Indian Territory, they grow marvellously fleet of foot, and as hardy as mountain-goats.

When about three years old the ponies--all these horses under fifteen hands high--are taken out of the drove, and broken either for cattle or polo. The process of breaking is not a difficult one, though sometimes troublesome and tedious. The pony is first corralled--that is, driven out of the bunch into a pen by himself--then roped, often thrown, and saddled and bridled. As a rule they make a great show of resistance. They buck, they kick, they rear, they lie down and roll, they run into fences or trees--in short, there is nothing that the instinct of self-defence can prompt that a spirited pony will not do, and persist in doing, until he learns the futility of kicking against the pricks. His spurred and booted rider is prepared for any exhibition of temper or ingenuity that he can devise, and wrestles with him gently but firmly, sticking to his seat until the frantic efforts of the rebellious pony have exhausted themselves. Then, subdued, if not overcome, he is unsaddled and staked out, or tied up for the night, only to go through the same performance the next day.

After several days' experience of the bit and bridle, and the singular persistence of the load upon his back in staying there under all provocation, the pony as a rule gives in--all the sensible ones, at least; the bad-tempered broncos--the chronic buckers and kickers and bolters--fight on spasmodically, and sometimes do not become thoroughly broken, if ever, for weeks. When the pony has once recognized and accepted you as his master, his future usefulness depends very largely upon your treatment of him. If he is ridden hard and handled roughly he will grow rough and unmanageable or mean and uncertain in temper; but if treated gently and kindly he becomes docile and dependable, and as faithful as a dog. He learns to know and love his master very soon, and is as susceptible to flattery and petting as a dog or a woman. Some ranchers, especially those with the reputation of being able to "make a pretty good horse talk," will tell you that their favorite ponies, even when in the pasture, come at their whistle like a dog; but it is not very safe to trust to this devotion and obedience, for the majority are as wild as hawks, and as difficult to catch, and unless one wishes the exercise of a hard chase, it is better to hobble them when the saddle and bridle are taken off and they are left to graze.

In buying ponies, either for polo or cattle, it is well to know the owner's reputation, and how he breaks and handles them, for a good cow-puncher is sure to have good ponies, fast and bridle-wise--"mighty handy," in the vernacular, and trained to stop quickly and hold hard. In roping, a good pony is as strong as any steer, and ought to be able to hold no matter how hard the steer may jerk or pull when the rope is thrown. There are no particular breeds in this country; any small horse on the range is called "bronco" or "pony" indifferently, and they are taken from all classes indiscriminately, being picked out by their size and build, and the polo pony only differs from others by his superior speed and agility, and his record as a cow pony.

The small fleet Arab horses which are sold so much in England for polo have had no early training in cow-practice, but as a breed are very intelligent, very quick, and yet extremely docile.

The Shetland-pony, which is such a favorite with children, is not agile enough for either polo or cattle, and there are all sorts and conditions of ponies that are useful in other respects, but absolutely useless in rounding up or cutting out, or on the polo-grounds.

In advertising for polo ponies one usually sends out a circular stating the necessary requisites: the size--fourteen hands one inch--and the temper and disposition; and it takes a trained eye to pick out the most promising from all those brought for inspection.

A good cutting pony is always safe, and the prices range according to their value in cutting and penning cattle. They can be bought from thirty-five to a hundred and fifty or two hundred dollars, and even up to such fancy prices as five hundred. Some first-class cutting ponies cannot be purchased at any price, for love or money, a cow-puncher or ranch-owner being just as willing to part with his wife and children, his house and land, as with his prize cow pony.

This cutting cattle is a wonderful thing, and a fruitful theme for the tall stories with which the cowboy enlivens the tedium of the many idle hours of his varied and precarious life. "Stuffing the tenderfoot" with Munchausen tales of the marvellous performances of these remarkably clever little animals, or swapping yarns with other gifted companions whose imaginations have never been broken in by the strong hand of truth. But even the stories which are strictly and literally true sound almost incredible to the uninitiated, for the cutting pony shows not only the sagacity and resources of the Scotch collie, but the quickness and agility of the cat, in separating or cutting out the particular cow or steer from the herd which his master indicates, sometimes by riding the pony at her, or by following for a few yards.

The cattle may stampede, the steer or cow may run, double, stick like a burr to the herd, but the clever little pony, cool and keen, heads her off, turns her round, cuts her out, and finally drives her triumphantly into the open, where she can be roped, or into a pen. He separates a cow from her calf, cuts out a steer without even disturbing the others, and uses as much judgment as an experienced man. The cow-puncher gives him his head after the steer has once been selected, and only holds his lasso in readiness to rope him when he has been successfully cut out from the bunch.

A Texas cow-puncher offered once to bet a hundred dollars that his cow pony could, _without a bridle_, cut any steer from the herd of cattle after he had once understood which one he was to separate. The bet was taken by a tenderfoot, who had sporting spirit enough not even to grudge the money when he saw how cleverly it was done, the little pony going to work, on his own account, with the same skill and judgment the keenest cow-puncher in the country might have shown.

They get to be so fast and sharp, to turn and stop, and head off so quickly, that it is almost bewildering to ride them in a difficult case. Another Texas ranchman, a famous cow-puncher in his day, sold his celebrated cutting pony because it was too fast for him; he was growing too old for the pace.

This cutting-out work shows a pony to better advantage even than the polo game. In heading off he acts more quickly than a man can think, playing the game himself, which in polo is a very undesirable thing.

It is most amusing to watch the businesslike air with which a cutting pony starts in to put a calf, one who is particularly fresh and obstreperous, through a fence or into a pen, or to simply corner him. There is nothing so exasperating as a calf, except, perhaps, a sheep. Was it not John Randolph of Roanoke who maintained that he would _walk_ twenty miles to kick a sheep? Just so cowboys feel about a "fool calf."

A pony, however, when he chooses, can be equally aggravating. As in polo he is sometimes too knowing, so in cutting cattle the very best ones use their superior knowledge to be most exasperating.

They learn to gauge the distance and length of the rope with such certainty that they know just when to stop for the throw; and when they feel lazy and disinclined for the hard work of holding a steer, they fool their master by coming to a stand a yard or two from the cow, and the rope falls that much short.

One first-rate but obstinate cutting pony worked this trick so often that his master was only saved from selling him by the humor of the situation--his appreciation of the joke on himself.

It would be hard to choose from the stories current among cattle-men of their cutting ponies--stories proving how "powerful smart," "plumb human," etc., they are, for they all swear to the same class of what the ignorant might call fiction, but which, in their opinion, does not even come under the head of "tall horse talk."

Perhaps the --Z (bar Z) brand story is a fair example. The cow-puncher assures you seriously that the cutting pony always knows his master's brand, and can pick out a cow with this brand from a mixed herd of any size, and they cite the following anecdote in illustration of this fact:

A certain --Z-brand cutting pony, who was sold after years of experience, continued, in spite of all that his new master could do, to cut out every cow or calf with the --Z brand that he could find in any bunch. His owner was finally indicted for stealing cattle, but pleaded his pony's record in self-defense. The court, sympathising in his peculiar and delicate position, released him with a small fine; but the pony, like Werther's Charlotte, went on cutting --Z cattle to the end of his days, which might mean fifteen, sixteen, or even twenty years, for, if well cared for, they often live that long. Both the cattle and polo ponies are shod, even on the range, and if used hard are generally fed in winter, though grazing all summer. They are ungroomed, and their tails left flowing freely; and their first sensations, after a transfer from their native heath to the luxurious and well-ordered stables of the East, where they are docked, clipped, curried, rubbed down, and blanketed, must be somewhat like those experienced by the tramp who is forcibly bathed and groomed in a model lodging-house, though the polo pony yields to the civilizing influence more readily than does the tramp.

But the comforts of life and even the excitement of polo may seem to the cutting pony a poor exchange for the lost delights of rounding up and penning steers, and what is a Rockaway Cup to the glory of winning the prize in a roping contest at a county fair? These roping contests are the pride of the cattle-men, and the great feature of the Texan county fairs.

The steer is put in a pen, and a man with a flag placed about fifty feet from him. The man on the cutting pony stands near the pen, with the rope ready. And at a given signal the steer is let out, and as he passes the flag it is dropped, the pony dashes after him, and the man who can rope, throw, and tie the steer in the shortest time wins the prize. It has been done in twenty seconds, but the average time is about a minute; any duffer, they say, can do it inside of five minutes. It is a dangerous method of roping, and is only used in contests, never on the range, for the pony is going at full speed, and the rope is thrown as he shoots by the steer, the rider giving it a little fling and jerk on the off side, and it is a close call whether the steer throws the pony or the pony the steer.

The prize cow ponies are the ones most sought after for polo. They make by far the best and most steady and reliable playing ponies. The training for polo is of course different from that employed in roping cattle, but a good cow pony has all the necessary qualifications, and learns the game very quickly.

In order to accustom them to the mallet, one rides for several days simply carrying it and waving it about, but not attempting to hit the ball. The pony jumps at first, and is very nervous, but gradually grows used to it, and after about ten days of flourishing the mallet round the head and tapping the ball gently he is ready for the game with its fierce scrimmage. As the warrior in olden times donned his armor--his helmet, breastplate, greaves, and shield--before going to war, and as his modern prototype, the football-player, prepares for battle with shoulder and thigh pads, head and ear bandages, elastic knee and ankle-bands, nose and teeth guards, so the polo pony is made ready for his part in the great contest, being booted to the knees in heavy leather leggings, which protect him from the blows of the mallet. A few ponies, the very nervous or stupid ones, wear blinders, but as a general rule they are played without them, and being able to see on either side gives them a decided advantage.

With the light English saddle instead of the heavy Mexican monstrosity which is universally used in roping cattle, the pony is led out, blanketed by the groom, who is as careful of the condition of his polo ponies as a jockey is of his race-horse. They are exercised regularly when not playing, and given as much food as they will eat, and the knowing little ponies are well aware of their true value, as one learns in hearing polo men talk, or in reading Mr. Kipling's story of the _Maltese Cat_.

As is the case in all fields of sport, the pony who plays for the gallery is not nearly so useful in the long-run as the quiet, sensible, steady ones who do not try to show off or play the whole game themselves. Sometimes the high-strung, nervous ponies are the very best, the quickest, and brightest, but they require most careful handling, and are apt to get flighty, to have "wheels in their heads," and to want to run, or they show every sign of equine nervous prostration. The dispositions of the ponies are as varied as those of the superior animal, man. They can be stubborn or yielding, uncertain or even-tempered, tricky or steady, plucky or cowardly, nervous or phlegmatic. They are ambitious, conceited, lazy, timid--in short, there is no human trait of character that they do not at times exhibit.

Some ponies play very well at first, and then seem to lose their nerve, and are never good for anything again.

When you know your pony's temper to be uncertain, the most cautious handling is necessary. At the first symptom of becoming wicked it is better to give in and get off.

A very fine polo pony belonging to Mr. Keene was entered in a contest in one of the horse shows. The ponies had to go in and out between posts in order to show how quickly they turned, and how well they minded the rein. After three rounds, and before the final one, Mr. Keene quietly jumped off and led his pony out of the ring. In explanation, he said that his pony had made up his mind to be nasty, and simply wouldn't go; he might spur or whip him till he was tired, but it would be of no use when he had once become exasperated and stopped short.

The same sort of temper was shown in a match at Newport. It was very close and exciting, when suddenly one of the best ponies on the ground balked. His rider could not make him budge. Time was finally called, and it took _eight men five minutes_ to get that stubborn little beast off the field.

Outside of this uncertain temper, the most incurable faults in a polo pony are shying, and stopping on the ball instead of following, and not turning quickly enough.

They are plucky as a rule, but some ponies will play very well alone, be sharp, and turn and stop in splendid form, but will not go into a game with other ponies; the crowd seems to frighten and distress them.

Others will play a fine open game, but refuse a scrimmage, while a scrimmage is to some the cream of the whole game, and they will never give way, no matter how hard others bear against them, but stand like a Yale or Princeton line in the teeth of an onslaught.

In a hard match ponies are only played for about seven minutes, they get so winded; but often they go off the field most reluctantly, and chafe to get back into the game.

The majority of polo ponies really seem to enjoy it, and in spite of injuries and bad accidents, to enter into it with the zest of a true sportsman; and the stories of their grit and endurance ought to go down in history side by side with the tales of old war-horses and famous cavalry chargers.

A game little pony named Ink was struck by a mallet in a scrimmage, and though his master knew that he had been hit, the pony showed no signs of being badly hurt, until the _goal they were trying for was made_, and then he stood still, refusing to move. Two men and a boy tried to make him walk, but could not, and they found that his leg was broken just below the knee, and he was suffering so that they were obliged to shoot him on the spot.

Another pony fell only the other day, and broke his neck without uttering a sound, only beseeching them with his eyes to put an end to his pain.

One could multiply examples of their heroism indefinitely, if it did not seem to imply that the game was brutal. That is emphatically not the case, though, as in all branches of athletics there are possibilities of accidents more or less serious.

The object of this article, however, has been not the glorification, justification, or explanation of the game of polo, but to give a brief history of the noble little pony who plays it, and so long as he thoroughly enjoys the excitement of the sport one cannot feel that he is to be pitied, and one may wish him a long and prosperous career, and a future even greater than his past.

ODD VESSELS DESIGNED FOR SPEED.

In a few days a very curious vessel, named _Ernest Bazin_, will be finished at the Cail Dock-yards, at St. Denis, France. At first glance it looks like a large broad platform, pointed at one end and round at the other. There are three huge hollow disks, or wheels, on each side of the platform, that rest in the water. These wheels support the vessel, and when it is propelled by the use of a screw, the wheels revolve, and the whole structure simply rolls over the surface of the water.

On the platform will be the usual cabins, saloons, etc., and in a boxlike structure that sinks below the platform will be placed the engines. It is claimed by the designers that the motion of the ship will be very slight, thus doing away with seasickness, and the consumption of coal will be considerably less than in ordinary steamships. As the wheels roll over the water, the friction will be lessened, and with this advantage it is expected that the vessel will do some astonishingly quick travelling.

Another curious vessel was finished last June, and lay at a private wharf in Virginia for some time. She was named the _Howard Cassard_ and nicknamed the "Razor-back." With a length of 222 feet, she had only 16 feet beam. Her equilibrium was maintained by an extremely heavy keel and some 50,000 pounds of machinery below the water-line.

The razorlike sharpness of the boat gave it a curious look, and it was expected that when moving through the water the sharp prow would cut it like a knife, thus reducing the resistance to a minimum. The narrowness of her beam necessitated some economy in her interior arrangements, but this was successfully overcome by adopting somewhat the idea of a sleeping-car. But the _Howard Cassard_ was an experiment that evidently has not been successful, as the claim of the designer to cross the ocean in three-fifths of the time now required has as yet not been fulfilled by his odd craft.

Probably one of the strangest ideas in marine construction was that of the man who proposed placing in the stern of a vessel a number of compressed-air cannons. These were to be fired one after the other, the force of the air striking the water and driving the vessel forward. Somewhat similar is the idea of another engineer and inventor. It is to run a series of hollow pipes through the entire length of the keel. The pipes are to receive the water at the bow and carry it to the centre of the vessel, where it is shut off. Then a powerful pressure of compressed air is brought into play, and the separated body of water is shot out of the pipe in the stern, the power of the contact driving the vessel forward. As the water is to be received and discharged alternately, there would be no jerking motion.

OUR ROMAN TWINS.

BY OLIVE MAY EAGER.

When the twins were born in Rome, all of our friends exclaimed at once, "Oh, Romulus and Remus!" but we did not name them for the city's twin founders. One reason was that one of our babies was a girl, and although we might have called her Romola, we could not make up our minds to name the dear little brother in honor of that ill-natured Remus. So notwithstanding their classic birthplace, our twins answer to common, every-day names.

We lived at the foot of the Capitol, within a stone's-throw of the Roman Forum, around which clusters so much of legend and history. The nursery window overlooked the Capitol garden, where two wolves were always stalking restlessly about in their cages. Before our twins knew a word of English, and almost as soon as they could lisp in sweet Italian accents, they heard the tale of Romulus and Remus, and knew that the great city of Rome honored this legend by keeping two live wolves at the Capitol.

When they grew older and walked through the ancient streets, they became familiar with the picture of the babes and the wolf as seen on sign-boards and placards, as well as in marble and bronze reliefs. Thus the old legend grew into their lives, and they talked it over in wise baby fashion. Whenever they went to play hide-and-seek around the statue of Marcus Aurelius, in the Capitol square, they stopped long before the poor old caged wolves, and wondered why two wolves were kept, if Remus had to be killed for his bad behavior. Once they suggested to nurse that one wolf and two babies would seem more true to history; but when she replied that they would do splendidly for the babies, they dropped the subject, lest the city fathers hear of it in some way, and feel inclined to carry out so brilliant an idea.

In their own logical way, they were quite decided as to the place where Remus, in derision, jumped over the city wall, for it would be very easy to leap a certain low point up near the Macao, where they once went to see King Humbert review his troops in honor of the German Emperor's visit to Rome.

Of course mother wrote to America about the twins' sayings and doings, and one day they received a letter from the auntie whom they had never seen. She wrote that she had a globe of goldfish, and each fish had a name, except two tiny ones, which she would leave for them to name and to own when they came to see her in the spring.

The twins were very sober over this serious matter, though they did not even discuss the names, but from the start called their fish Romulus and Remus. When spring came, mother left for America with her five-year-olds, who stood the travelling well, and were made much of in the old home where mother spent her girlhood.

True to her promise, auntie gave them the fish in a tiny globe, and they would sit on the floor watching the goldies by the hour. It was a source of regret that they had no means of telling which was which, but one day they came pitching up stairs, too excited to speak plainly, "Oh, mother! we've 'scovered Remus, 'cause he jumped over." Sure enough, there lay the poor fish gasping on the floor, and although we put him back in the water immediately, he hobbled around for days with a broken fin, and moved stiffly ever afterwards.