ask and obtain frequent permission to absent himself from the farm for a week or more, pleading hard work, illness, or anything to get away. Miss Mandy wondered but refrained. from comment. The spring came on and the planting began. Unc' Fount grew visibly restless, like the nestbuilding birds in the fencerows. Still the journeys to Lexington. One day, he came home with the solemn announcement to Miss Mandy that the gentleman who had purchased the colt was unable to pay for him, and they would have to take him back.

Miss

"Traded thu colt, Miss Mandy; got a mewl an' sumpin' tuh boot. Gwine back in uh few days tuh sell thu mewl.”

Confiding Miss Mandy, with small knowledge of values, took the twohundred-dollar certificate and laid it away to the lad's school credit. Unc' Fount looked the farm over, got things into working shape, and went off on the old mare to sell the mule. It took him three weeks to do it. When he came home, he had another certificate. It called for five hundred dollars.

Mandy was disappointed, and when Unc' Fount suggested that he might be able to trade the youngster for a pair of farm mules, Miss Mandy acquiesced. Unc' Fount hired a man to look after the planting, and departed, nobody knew where, on a horse trade. He was gone two weeks. When he again knocked at Miss Mandy's door, he handed her a certificate of deposit from a Lexington bank.

"Yuh see, Miss Mandy," the old man explained, "mewls is wuth uh heap mo' dan dey hev been faw uh long time, an' hit wus uh pow'ful good un I got faw thu colt."

The

Miss Mandy thanked him and put the certificate with the other. spring had got into her heart with these signs of prosperity, and she sang a soft song of hope when she thought of the lad. Unc' Fount paid his respects to the farm, and

then requested Miss Mandy to permit him to take a few dollars accumulated from the trading, and go out after more mules. Miss Mandy gave him her confidence and the money, and away he went.

Not for many days after that did there come any word from Unc' Fount. Miss Mandy wondered often what had become of the faithful old negro, but patiently awaited his return. Could she have seen him during those weeks, however, her astonishment would have been too great for words. Could she have peeped in at the great Lexington race course and seen old Unc' Fount at work in the paddock, rubbing down the finest-looking race horse at the track, after one of its great stake races; had she noticed the remarkable resemblance between that young thoroughbred and the old "Oaks winner" left her by Major Armstrong; could she have seen the old negro hurrying around the betting ring with a roll of bills in his hands; could she have heard his proud chuckle after the big race, as he divided the profits of the horse's wonderful speed with a raw-boned Kentucky turfman ;- could Mandy have seen all these things as they happened in Lexington during Unc' Fount's absence, some faint suspicion of the real state of affairs might have reached her mind.

Miss

The summer grew into the August days before the woolly head of the old negro was again protruded through Miss Mandy's sitting-room door. When, one bright afternoon, the sun silhouetted Unc' Fount's shadow against the door-jamb, Miss Mandy looked up to see a transformed negro. The lines of thought and responsibility had disappeared; the old eyes had found the twinkle of their youth; the teeth were scintillant in a grin that spread itself across his big face.

"Miss Mandy, I'se come," he said. "Glad to see you back, Unc' Fount."

"Hyah's sumpin' I brung yuh." He laid a paper in her lap. As she

me tryin' tuh tell yuh no mo' lies, Miss Mandy. Thu colt done hit all. Thu old mar's baby dun been 'bout thu bes' race hoss in Kaintucky, an' him an' Unc' Fount hev been out collectin' faw yuh an' Mistah Har'y. I knows hit's 'gin yo' religion, an' ef yo' knowed I'm gwine train dat colt yuh say 'no,' so I des sen' 'im down tuh Lexington an dar he been tell thu races all over. Sometimes dey beat us- sometimes but mos' all thu time, thu colt is busy collectin' faw Miss Mandy. He go on collectin' tell by-an'-by they ain' no mo' racin' gwine on, an' then I go back tuh Lexington, an' me an' thu colt settle up wiv thu bank.

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It's all sin money, Miss Mandy, sin money," he went on, "but I reckin they ain' uh collige in thu lan' whut won' be grabbin' faw uh chanct tuh git hit, an' I reckin Mistah Har'y 'ill larn des es much on hit es on any othah kin'. Hit's mighty slow wuk tryin' to dig uh edicashion outen uh co'n row, specially when uh colt lak that un is des uh beggin' tuh he'p. So yuh musn't git mad at Unc' Fount, Miss Mandy. Ennyhow, me an' thu colt wus thu sinnahs, an' thu Lawd won' be countin' yuh in 't all."

It was all so pathetic, this appeal for forgiveness. Miss Mandy saw her way clear. She held out a trembling hand to the old negro.

"Unc' Fount," she said, "let's lay all the blame on the colt's natural tendencies. He was born that way."

W

HERE did I get Lady Frances? Why, my boy, I bought her as a yearling, and with her, won both fame and fortune. Her victories, and they have been many, have brought joy to my heart; while her defeats-few, thank Heaven!cut deeper than all other sorrows in my not uneventful life.

How well I remember the first time I saw her! It was in the spring of eighty-seven. I was traveling in Kentucky, and chanced to drop into the sale mart at Lexington. An auction was in progress, and I have never ceased to thank the Fates for leading me there. Like the majority of other horsemen, I was always on the lookout for something good. When a bright bay filly was brought into the ring, and I saw her step, my fancy was taken and I resolved that she must be mine. It was a case of love at first sight, and like a man in love, I counted not the cost-for what was life without that filly? What a marvellous gait she had, and how she could step! With that low, deceptive stride characteristic of some trotters, she fairly flew over the ground with little seeming

She was a lithe, clean-cut,

nervy little creature, and looked every inch a race horse. Through her veins coursed the blood of the most famous studs of the century, and her looks did not belie her breeding.

After some spirited competition, a bid of $1,200 made her mine, and I shipped her home. From that time on I was a busy man; it seemed as if I could not bear to trust her with anyone else, but must do all for her myself. That summer, I broke her thoroughly, and jogging along in the cool of the evening, we soon became the best of friends. I had made no mistake; she was a trotter of the first order. She was turned out for the winter, and when the ice had disappeared and the frost had left the ground, I began her training with a definite object in view.

How many races did she win? Well, my boy, you had better take a "Year Book" and look them up; for they were numerous, far too numerous to dilate upon. You will find

that she "earned brackets" in a large majority of her starts. I will tell you of her first race, however; for, to me, that was the greatest

race of her career, though she has since won larger stakes on larger tracks and before larger audiences.

Well do I remember the morning I journeyed to see her work the last time before that race, and with what satisfaction I witnessed the trial. In company with an older horse, she scored down the stretch, her gallant little head straining like a yacht before the wind, eager to be off and doing. On the second score, they got away, my watch clicked, and with perfect ease she stepped the full mile in 2:19-pretty fair for a three-yearold early in July.

At last the morning of the race dawned, and you can imagine my condition. I had passed a sleepless night; had rolled and tossed in bed imagining all sorts of strange things. What if Lady Frances should be beaten? How could I endure that? What if she should win? Would there be a town large enough to hold me that night? Hardly!

As often happens when a man is in a hurry, I was kept waiting, for the filly was not to start until the third race of the day, and the two preceding races seemed endless to me, though at any other time, I should probably have gone into ecstasies over the sport. Finding my way to the betting ring, I determined to risk a little on the chances of my Frances; for I knew that she was game to the core and would die hard, at any rate. True, I did not know much of the other starters, but "2:19" was ringing in my ears, and I knew what they would have to beat. Bet, did you say y? I should say I did bet. When they went to the post, I had staked on Lady Frances more than I could well afford to lose.

When the bell rang for the threeyear-old trot, my poor nerves tingled, and my head seemed to whirl; but as the colts lined up for the word, I could see that Lady Frances had the pole. That seemed to my excited brain an omen of success, and I felt as light-hearted as a schoolboy just

released from his daily tasks. Five better colts could not have been found in the county, and I knew that the filly was in for a tussle.

A minute later, they scored for the word, Brown Kitty's driver keeping well to the front. The bell rang, and back they came, and again they scored. This time they got the word for a splendid start, Lady Frances maintaining her position at the pole to the turn; there she gave way to Brown Kitty. At the quarter, Lady Frances was at the brown mare's side, and this position was held to the stretch; and then I knew that it was over, for Brown Kitty could not hold the magnificent pace set by my mare; and that heat was ours.

Again they came out, and again they scored and left the wire. The heat was a repetition of the first. Lady Frances won easily, stepping the mile in twenty flat. After the second victory, a feeling of exultation came over me, for it seemed as good as settled. My head was twice its natural size, and still swelling, but it soon came down, not gradually, but suddenly.

When the third heat was called, I took hardly enough interest in the event to climb the stairs to the grand stand, believing that Lady Frances would win in a walk. But in my confidence, I had overlooked Cortland Girl. Even when she crowded well to the front on the first score, I thought of the two poor heats she had done, and did not believe she would cause us any trouble. But the grey filly was after that heat, and she thundered down the first quarter at a pace which it did not seem possible she could hold for the mile. But she did, and won the heat, though Lady Frances gave her a hot fight in the stretch.

That made three rattling heats for our filly, and we were in a dilemma. Whether to go out for the next heat or to lay up for the last, was the question, and we pondered over it deeply. At last we decided to try

again, knowing that the race would be over if we won, and that it would require only one more heat if we did not. The result came as a second shock; for Cortland Girl stepped off another fast mile, too fast for Lady Frances. The reaction was terrible, from victory to apparent defeat. My heart stood still, and I could scarcely think. Then came hope; for there was still a fighting chance, and I would not believe that all my watchful care and training of the little filly that I understood so well, had been misplaced. No, it could not be! She must win! I felt better and stronger as the spirit of the fighter again stirred my blood.

Lady Frances had trotted four hard heats, while the grey had been driven but two at her limit. However, our filly was in good trim; for she had cooled out nicely and was apparently fit for the heat of her life-but so was the grey. At the word, Cortland Girl took the lead, her driver being afraid to take any chances. She maintained a slight advantage to the quarter, to the half, and to the three-quarter pole, while Lady Frances was in the bunch some lengths behind. The stretch was reached, and all seemed over. With one accord the crowd rose, and the shouts of, "The grey wins!" were heard from every side. I closed my eyes, and sank into a lethargy from which I was wakened by a cry of surprise. With renewed interest, I look once

TH

more. Out of the bunch has sprung a bright bay filly. With every muscle strained, she sets sail after the grey as if determined to overtake her yet. Even now I hear the perfect rhythm of her hoof-beats on the track, every stroke corresponding to the wild beating of my heart; in fancy, I can hear my own. cry of "Lady Frances! Come on girlie-Lady Frances! Lady Frances!" The whole scene is pictured before me as I describe it. The great grand-stand and its black hordes of excited people, with the sea of faces straining forward in the intensity of the race; the flying sulkies, their drivers urging forward the struggling horses, all add to the excitement of the moment. And now the great crowd takes up my cry, as the bay cuts down the lead of her faltering rival.

"Come on, Frances! Lady Frances! Lady Frances wins!" is echoed from every part of the grand stand.

At the distance stand, she is but a length behind and is gradually gaining, gaining. Inch by inch she closes up the breach- now at her rival's sulky-wheel, now at the side of the grey's driver, whose face grows white in despair. Now she is at the grey's saddlegirth—and the wire only a few rods away. We must win! Neck and neck they fly along, both drivers straining as if their very lives depend upon victory. The wire is reached at last; Lady Frances is a nose to the good, and the race is won.

HE last of the buffalo is an ofttold tale, but my part in the extermination of the American bison has, until now, remained hidden from the world. And it should continue to be hidden, too, but that long years have somewhat dulled the sensitiveness of youth. It is with no feeling of self-laudation that the story

is now told; but rather that it may have an honored place in the history of the departed buffalo.

It was the year of the last massacre of any considerable numbers of buffalo, that I joined the pilgrimage of adventurous spirits moving westward to Montana, that land of expected wonders. At that time, the