takes the spoon with avidity in salt water, and fights as valiantly as any Salmo salar. Following the king salmon, comes the Sockeye (Onchorynchus nerka). This is the cannery fish. It is not so good eating by long odds as at least two other salmon caught on the coast, but its flesh is a rich crimson, and consequently meets the approval of the public, who know that the Atlantic salmon has always pink flesh when in high condition, and think the same rule applies to the Pacific fish. This is not the case, however; the paler species, such as the Tyhee and Cohoe, being infinitely more palatable than the brighterhued Sockeye. The Sockeye has never been known to take the trolling bait or artificial fly.

Sometimes in August, the sporting little Cohoe (Onchorynchus kisitch) makes its appearance, and during the following six or eight weeks, the angler may have his surfeit of salmon fishing. Should he not own a canoe, he may hire one for "four bits" a day; and paddling slowly over the land

locked waters, he may catch Cohoe salmon until even that begins to pall. They bite most freely the last half hour of the ebb, and the first two hours of the flood, but stray fish may be picked up at almost any time.

Some of the prospectors of the Northwest kill fish for food, with dynamite cartridges; and if prospectors were more numerous, and salmon and trout less abundant, such a reckless waste of fish life would soon render the waters barren. Happily, a few thousand men wandering for a portion of the year over the mountain ranges, can produce no visible diminution in the number of trout, even if they do explode a stick of dynamite now and again. British Columbia seems destined to provide sport for anglers in the days when every stream in the East shall have been polluted by dye-stuffs and chemicals, and when the only trout the little street-bred people know, are those that come in refrigerator cars from the land of the Siwash, the country of the setting sun.

UST as the haughtiest of dames un bends when she is having her hair brushed, so will the most stilted and uncompromisingly-silent of men become communicative after dinner. The smoking room at Netherby Hall was occupied by about fifteen men of all ages. There was a house party for the pheasant shooting, and the male contingent thereof consisted of many more members, but some had retired bedward. Each

of them was supremely confident of his own superiority in every field of sport-a condition of content, by the way, that always made me envy the average Britisher.

There was the Duke of Piccadilly, who had sat in the House of Lords for over thirty years, during which period he had spoken but once, and then only to bid an attendant "shut that dd window;" and there, playing cards in a corner, was the Hon. Wentworth Montgomery, known to his friends, for some inexplicable reason, as "Tommy," a ruddy-faced, impudent-looking youth who staked his sovereigns with the utmost coolness, notwithstanding the fact that he was a younger son, and that his income, outside his regimental pay, was but three hundred a year. The host, one Herbert Ingleby, a fine specimen of the old school, did not appear entirely at his ease on this particular evening.

With his son, he was endeavoring to entertain an elderly gentlemen and a sallow complexioned but well-built youth. It was the old story of an American hiring a neighboring estate, and forcing an entrée into country society.

Mr.

The average Englishman is supremely ignorant of America and Americans, and regards them suspiciously as foreigners who may shoot foxes or ride over hounds. Ingleby was not discourteous-he was far too much of a gentleman for that, - but he was growing rather bored. He had tried the land question, the Irish question, the church question and the foreign-policy-of the-Government question, each with but limited success; and not being endowed with any particular brilliancy of ideas or conversation, he was beginning to feel somewhat "stumped."

Mr. Van Peyster himself began to wish that he had not accepted the invitation to stay a week. His own place was but ten miles away; they might easily have driven back after dinner. Mr. Van Peyster sighed as he thought of his own rye whiskey, instead of the smoky stuff diluted with a bottle of soda water, that was offered to him; and of his corn-cob in place of the dry, crackling Havanas of his host, neither of which appealed favorably to him.

The Hon. Wentworth Montgomery, or rather, "Tommy," for the sake of brevity, strolled over to where young Van Peyster and Ingleby Jr. were seated. "Tommy" was of a kindly nature in an indolent sort of way, and seeing Bob Ingleby, whom he reverenced as the hardest and straightest man across country, of his acquaintance, thoroughly bored, he determined to "help him out of the ditch," as he would have put it.

"Do they aw-ride much in America? was his initial effort at entertaining the American visitor.

"Oh, quite a good deal," modestly answered Van Peyster the younger. "Play polo?"

"Yes, quite a good deal."

66

Strange," mused Tommy; "I didn't think the game had reached that far yet."

"Oh, we're not such barbarians as you imagine us to be," laughed Van Peyster, good-naturedly; I guess we do almost everything in that line that you do over here I mean in the way of sport. By the way, I see that some steeplechasing is coming off here in a month or so; I suppose there would be no harm in my trying my hand, eh?"

Mr. Van Peyster's manner was rather familiar and jaunty, but, naturally, that was only due to his Americanism, thought Tommy.

"No indeed," was chorused in reply by the remaining occupants of the room, for there had been an exodus of two or three since the card table became vacant.

Here indeed was a chance! A green, fresh hand absolutely presuming to compete with old practised steeplechasers; a chance for a lesson, and incidentally, for an addition to the bank account, for Van Peyster would naturally back his own mounts. Conversation from that instant never turned from the subject, and when Mr. Van Peyster retired, he found himself booked for three matches and entered for two cups in the two days of racing, besides having a betting book well annotated and mostly with three-figure entries.

The next day there was a battue, that form of sport which has been so execrated by many sportsmen. The pheasants, which regarded the shooters with mild and melancholy eyes, refused to leave the ground without vigorous hustling, evidently fancying that each man who carried a gun was a kindly keeper with a pocketful of grain. When they did lazily flutter

aloft, they were shot down by the score.

Mr. Van Peyster and his son astonished the party. They not only missed nearly every bird at which they fired, but swore in such voluble language, committing birds, guns and everyone present to the infernal regions, that Mr. Ingleby had to

remonstrate.

"I thought," murmured Tommy to Bob Ingleby; "I thought they said they had done such tremendous work against the wild geese and canvasback in their own country."

"Humph," growled his companion, who was not in the best of tempers, "wild geese and canvasback must be dead easy shooting then."

But Van Peyster Jr., who had overheard these remarks, turned to his father, and winked knowingly. Their bad sportsmanship had had its desired effect, and most of the son's bets on the steeplechase were doubled that night in the card-room.

The morning of the Wedderburn Steeplechase broke clear and frosty. It was not so cold as to stop the sport, but just crisp enough to harden the surface of the ground, and to improve the ploughed fields with a slight crust. The Van Peysters had become passably popular during the last month that is, so far as they were known, for they neither visited nor entertained very extensively, and were never inclined to be particularly communicative. The general verdict was that they were "rather nice for Americans," and several country matrons had begun to remember that plenty of nice girls had married Americans, and come to no special harm from doing so.

The Wedderburn Steeplechase was by no means confined to the country gentlemen and farmers of the district, generally found in such surburban meetings. There were one or two races well worth competing for, on the programme of the day's sport, and a good sprinkling of outside entries raised the meeting to quite an event in the annals of Wedderburn

EVEN THE LITTLE DUCHESS SAT UP AND INQUIRED WHAT MIGHT BE THE MATTER.

ians, and it was actually reported in the London sporting weeklies.

Wedderburn society turned out in full force. The Duchess of Piccadilly, a meek little withered-up old woman, having a countenance resembling an over-kept pippin, dressed in a very badly-worn black bonnet, was jolted in her immense barouche over the grass field to a position near the winning-post. Once there, all the country people besieged her car. riage, grimacing and grinning. As for the poor little woman herself, she was wishing the affair over, having no interest in horses and solacing her monotonous life with soup-kitchens and parish libraries. Customary patronage, however, demanded her presence, and here she was.

Here, too, was the sporting rector of Wedderburn, feeling rather qualmish lest his bishop should hear of his presence, but hoping to turn the two or three bank-notes he carried, into at least as many more. And here was the sporting curate of the sporting rector of Wedderburn, dodging about in the distance with one eye on his "boss", and jingling a few sovereigns in his pocket. Poor fellow! He had only just left Oxford, and the old Adam had not entirely evacuated his person. Both were in some trepidation, for the bishop would have exorcised the rector, and the rector the curate, had they been aware of their juniors' indiscretions.

A horde of villagers from the surrounding district were gapingly lounging around, while some, with open mouths, were donating their sixpences and shillings to the three-card trick man, that ubiquitous individual who turns up at every meeting no matter how small. A heavy dragoon regiment quartered in the neighborhood, had brought over its drag, and was dispensing hospitality with lavish hand. Two or three tents, liberally topped with flags, had been put up at the side of the field, and they lent an air of gaiety to the proceedings that would not otherwise have been so marked.

Grooms were leading well-blanketed horses to and fro, and the loud voicesof the bookmakers, the chattering of the people, and the sense of pervading excitement were intensely exhilarating and conducive to good spirits.

Mr. Van Peyster and his son, the latter wearing the latest abortion in the shape of a light overcoat with buttons as big as cheeseplates, were strolling up and down apart from the crowd.

"You have not done so badly," exclaimed Van Peyster Senior, removing his cigar from his mouth. "Are you sure of the fifth race though?"

"I've got to be sure of it," laughed his son shortly.

"You know what it means to us!" exclaimed the father anxiously.

Mr. Van Peyster Junior, turned angrily on his heel.

"Look here, Pop," he replied, "don't you know I feel anxious enough without your infernal croaking? Let me alone, and for goodness' sake, go and do the society racket; I'm going for a brandy-and-soda. Your cursed whining has made me shaky."

"All right, my boy, all right. I can trust your level head," replied his sire, soothingly, as he ambled away in search of the Duke of Piccadilly, the latter being engaged in saying pompous but amiable nothings to his tenantry.

"Ah, Mr. Van Peyster," exclaimed his Grace, extending the forefinger of his left hand. "Congratulate you; your boy rode a capital race. Seen the Duchess? She's over there; come with me and I'll introduce you."

This was indeed an honor. The Piccadillys, although they had several times been under the same roof as the Van Peysters, had always ignored their presence. Van Peyster Junior had ridden and won two events during the afternoon, by good horsemanship, and the Duke, who was, with all his faults, a thorough sportsman, recognized the fact and felt