Tuesday, F^btruafy 13th, 1894. 17 



suppose — when, suddenly, my horse's forehand dis- 

 appears, and I am shot off into a spongy bog. Ugh ! 

 My horse flounders out of the mire, and I am just 

 about to lay hold of his reins, which are trailing, 

 when, with a toss of his head, he turns from me, and 

 goes off tail on end, and blowing like a grampus. 

 He turns his head from side to side to catch a peep 

 at my amiable countenance and mud-laden boots, 

 and to see how / go through dirt. He is poking fun 

 at me. Sometimes he stops to let me come up with 

 him ; and when I try to put the crook of my whip on 

 his reins, lo ! with a wheel, he places his tail where 

 his head was the moment before, gallops off a few 

 strides, and then settles down into a grand high- 

 stepping showyard trot, pulling up every now and 

 then with a loud snort. The hounds and horses are 

 too far ahead to attract him, so I absorb his whole 

 attention. After a time we get into a corner near a 

 gate. Here I make another attempt to capture him, 

 but he evades me, and makes for the gate, beyond 

 which is an extensive moor, where he will have 

 plenty of room for the carrying on of his Tom 

 Tiddler's Land game. Luckily for me, on each side 

 of the gate — a low, rotten thing — there is a pool of 

 water. At this he stops, sniffs, and snorts, to find 

 out what sort of bottom it has. This is my oppor- 

 tunity, my last chance. I rush in, and stop him 

 just as he is rising for the jump. I turn him round, 



B 



