The pony is worthy of more attention from the horse show associations of the country than he has yet received. There was a tendency at one time to go to the hackney type for ponies, as in the case of that rare little prize-winner, Princess, whose portrait from the brush of Mr. Gean Smith is here given. But the little beauty and others of her kind are a long way removed from the ideal, allround pony that a small boy can drive, hack or hunt. It is on the score of the little folks that the pony is particularly worthy of consideration, for if the taste for the horse is not cultivated in the young, it is rarely developed in the mature. This is not a country of ponies, at least high-class ponies. Out West the broncho has flourished for years, but they have been miserably in-bred for generations, and a really good one is extremely hard to find. Recently more attention has been paid to them by the introduction of thoroughbred stallions, and in process of time good results should be achieved, for let nobody suppose that the broncho is not full of good qualities as well as bad.

But the pony, pure and simple, such as is found in the Welsh mountains and on Exmoor, in the West of England, is extremely rare. Take the Welsh ponies, for example. As a rule, they are out-and-out trappers, with lots of knee action and capital shoulders and quarters. At that, the Exmoor comes nearer the ideal than any other breed. Most of the studs have been carefully maintained, and so strongly infused with Arab blood that the ponies are not only good trappers, but also have good galloping shoulders. It is a wonder that more of these all-round little horses have not been brought to this country.

The Shetland is of course the

child's pony. But, regarded in the same light as the Exmoors, they bear no comparison. As a rule, they are pottering little brutes, good enough for the use of babies and nurse maids, but they play no more part in the horse world than the patient donkey.

There is one point without which no article on horse shows can be reckoned complete, and that is the very real necessity for encouraging horses of the general utility class. This has been done only in a dilletante kind of way at Madison Square Garden, the swellest tradesmen of the city always running off with one class, and a few crack hansom cabs competing for the other. The horse show, of course, does not in any sense appeal to the poorer classes of the community, but the time may come when there will be a real usefulness for the managers to be able to point to the fact that they have not catered entirely to the rich.

There is no sense in giving classes which will be inevitably monopolized by wealthy tradesmen or livery stable keepers. Classes should be evolved which will give the poor man who owns or tends a horse a chance to make a little money, and earn some glory by taking good care of that horse. The thing has been done successfully in England, and if the matter was properly handled, some interesting and amusing novelties could be devised.

So much for the horse, as the horse show affects him. There is one point that has been widely discussed of late years which will bear a few words of comment, especially inasmuch as it is almost invariably misunderstood. The cry of "too much horse dealer" has been raised all over the country, but a greater fallacy never existed than the contention that dealers should not be allowed to compete against private owners. If it were not for the high-class dealers in and arcund New York, the number

of entries and the excellence of the horses shown at Madison Square Garden would fall off in the most surprising way.

Of course there are dealers and dealers, but the member of the craft who makes it his business to exhibit at horse shows, is of necessity a most immaculate individual, both as to manners and general make-up. Although it may sound like heresy to say so, it is nevertheless true that, were it not for the energy and industry of this much-maligned class, the high standard of equipages would steadily fall off. A comparatively small percentage of private coachmen have any idea of how to keep a prize winner up to the pitch of perfection. The dealer makes it his business, and his standard of intelligence is

necessarily superior to that of the ordinary groom.

It is only too common to hear private owners grumble that some dealer has beaten them in the ring with horses that they rejected in making a purchase from him, within some recent period. The private owner, in other words, is paying a comparatively incompetent man to do for him what the dealer does for himself, and since he made his purchase his horses have gone back, while those he saw in the dealer's yard, and did not fancy, have improved.

Another advantage that the dealer has, is that he is almost invariably the superior of the coachman or the amateur when it comes down to showing horses in the ring.

66

99

NOW

WOW that the invigorating days of November have come, with the shooting season well under way, and the votaries of dog and gun revelling in sport among the quail, the woodcock, the snipe or the ruffed grouse, the writer, in retrospect, goes back a good many years, when he had greater opportunities than are afforded now to participate in those pleasures which are known only

to the man who is a lover of the woods, the field, the mountains and the deep forest.

In retrospect he sees a comfortable plantation house way down in South Carolina, where he was always a welcome guest; where many a night he has come home with tired feet from quail and turkey shooting, or still hunting the deer. Once more he hears the hospitable voice of Uncle Yerkes, sees the welcoming smile of Miss Jennie and hears the prattling of the children, or listens to the crooning voice of Aunt Dilsey in negro medley, as out in the kitchen she prepares one of her incomparable Southern dinners. Was there ever any one just like Aunt Dilsey? I see her now, with the big white handkerchief about her head, which made her face look blacker and her eyes brighter; and the snow-white apron, the round, muscular arms; apparently never so happy as when in the kitchen, in the midst of frying pans, stewing pans, kettles and waffle irons those waffle irons that baked one big square waffle at a time, done to a tender brown, and served on a hot plate with a big lump of yellow butter that melts and runs into each little square. And then a cup of her excellent coffee; and the fried chicken-and such fried chicken as only Aunt Dilsey could serve. Well, well, it is a good many years ago, and with the memory there comes a

recollection of the turkey shooting on Uncle Yerkes's plantation, and in the country adjacent, and of the bringing to bag the famous turkey of "Nine Mile Run."

It was in December-never mind what year; it is so long ago that I do not want to calculate, for I want to bring it and keep it as near to my heart as ever-that I arrived at Uncle Yerkes's house for a sojourn of at least a week, fully prepared with two guns and a rifle for quail and turkey shooting, and some still hunting for deer. "Squire"-that was Uncle Yerkes's nephew-had met me at the station, twenty-five miles away, and when we arrived at the house, supper was awaiting us. As I got out of the wagon, such a welcoming as I received!-a warm, Southern hospitality was in the air here. There was Uncle Yerkes with both hands extended, and Miss Jennie standing a little back of him and looking very much pleased; and there was Rufus, Uncle Yerkes's brother, an ex-Confederate with one arm; and there was Rufus's three little ones; and behind them all, standing in the doorway, and framed as in a picture, was Aunt Dilsey, grinning from ear to ear. There was the barking of the dogs, and such running around and running in and running out; the whinnying of the horses in the stable, answered by the pair that had brought us to the door; the cheerful lights, the blazing logs in the great big fire-place. Indeed, it was coming among dear and old friends, and receiving such a welcome as stays in the heart always; not simply as a memory, but something better, something that words fail to describe.

"Mars Dick, we's jist bin specting yo' for de las hour; done got ebryting fixed fo' to put on de table but de chicken; and yo' knows yousef dat

dey has to be done jist such a time, and put on de hot plate an' de table right off. I tells yo', we's all powahful glad to see yo', and I knows yo' haint forgot dat kaliker dress what yo' was goin' to brung me, and some other tings, too, fer Miss Ginnie. She say es how I was gwine to have a powahful nice present fer Crismis."

All the family seated at the table, Uncle Yerkes at the head, Miss Jennie at the other end, and the guest in the seat of honor at her right. Now, could anything be more comfortable than this?

"By the way, Uncle Yerkes, how are the turkeys this year? Have you seen very many? I suppose the Squire has had a crack at them either from a blind, or moon-lighted them down at Nine Mile Run. I want to bag the big turk this trip."

"Yaas, Mr. Dick, the big turk hes bin seen jist twice this season; he wuz on t'other side of the Run, an' too fur away for Rufe er the Squire to fetch him. Reckon Squire had buck ager, fur he wuz a-goin' to fire anyway, when Rufe he stopped him, a-sayin' es how he allowed thar hadn't bin eny firin' around since last Spring, an' if they kept mighty quiet fur a while, an' hunted careful on good huntin' days, thar'd be more of a likelihood of gittin' a shot at that turk. So when we knowd yo' wus a-comin', Rufe he says es how thar'd be no firin' a-goin' on down whar the big turk hes bin usin' fur the past six year er so."

"Uncle Yerkes, do you really think there is a chance of getting a shot at that turk?" said I, filled with the liveliest anticipations and scarcely believing such a thing possible.

"Waal, thar's er sort of a livin' chance; yer see thar's the Gullage boys and we folks, haint bin doin' no. huntin' to speak of this Winter, an' thar ain't bin no fuss made down on the Nine Mile Run; but the boys hes bin out a-watchin' and keepin' mighty quiet jist the same, an' hev seen the

big turk twice, but allers fur away. We ain't a-goin' to run no resks, I reckon, and yo'll never git a shot at that varmint by any ordinary callin' an' batin'. He's a wise ole cuss, an' thar'll hev to be a powerful spirit to work to bring him for'ard, es the Baptist preacher said when he wuz aholdin' forth an' tryin' ter bring a hardened sinner to the mourner's bench." "How far off were you, Squire, when you saw him?"

"I reckon about two hundred yards; I had my rifle an' I was goin' in to try him anyway. But Uncle Rufus said no, fur I'd surely miss him and scare him off the grounds that we know he is usin' on now."

"You see," said Rufus, "Squire would bin almost sure to have missed with that single ball; what that turk needs is No. 1 or 2 or 4 shot, and plenty of them, right in the neck, at thirty yards."