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Certainly no cricket ever dropped blither music from his legs than did my beautiful horse that glorious morning as we clattered in perfect rhythm on the hard clean road of the wide pine forest. Ah! the forest is not there now; the lumbermen--

when, just as our last note died among the trees one of us cried, "Listen!" and through the stillness there came from far away on our right the last three measures of a bugle sounding The March.

"Front!" I once snapped out with a ring that made the trees reply and the ladies catch their breath. "If you steal one more look back here I'll put a ball into your leg."

Rills of perspiration tickled my back like flies. "Can't one man do the work?"

"South?" asked our leader.

With the rein dangling under the bits he went over the fence like a deer.

I remarked that had I been in her place I should either have sunk into the mire, so to speak, or thrown myself, literally, into the river.

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