150 MY horse; my love. 



have our class distinctions, our various social levels, 

 our families, proud of their American ancestry; and 

 to serve us all, we import from every country under 

 the sun. We are always importing distinct types 

 of live stock, both of man and beast, and our importa- 

 tions "come to stay." But even after many years — 

 beyond the "/<? ne sais quoi,'' which betrays our 

 nationality — who can assert that America has a type? 

 Do we owe this fact to our ever changing climate, 

 which w^oos us with coquettish smile, caressing our 

 expectant cheeks with balmy breezes from the Sunny 

 South, and embracing us in a loving, generous 

 warmth one day, and the next! with blackest frown; 

 pelts us unmercifully with wind and storm, hail and 

 rain, with terrifying thunder which roars at us, and 

 angry lightning which strikes and blinds and destroys 

 us? With nothing positive in the way of climate, 

 our differing types have no chance to become fixed, 

 and the student who loves to arrange and classify 

 will yield the attempt in despair. 



When we import a horse of whatever type, after 

 two or three generations his progeny loses his dis- 

 tinctive marks, and in two or three more the climate 

 has obliterated any that might be left. Some three 

 hundred years ago when the Spanish horses entered 

 America, some of them escaped to the great plains 

 of the West. From them has been evolved the native 

 horse of America, the broncho. The conditions of 

 climate have made him what he is, strong, rough, and 

 hardy; able to exist on the scantiest of food, in the 

 severest weather. He would probably turn up his 

 nose at a "warm mash," thinking it "food for 



