under a light man. One of the best things
that can be said of a hunter is, that at first
sight he appears two inches lower than he
really is. Short-legged horses leap better and
safer than long-legged cattle, and go faster and
further under hard riders.

Horses with straight hinder legs never can
have good mouths. He should have well-
placed hinder legs, with wide hips, well-spread
gaskins, as much as possible of the vis à tergo,
well-knit joints, short cannon bone, oblique
pasterns, and largish feet. The bone of a
hunter's hock cannot be too long. These are
the points for strength and bottom. " Handsome
is as handsome does," and an old whip once
said to a nobleman who remarked that his
staunch old horse who had carried him through
so many troubles had an awkward head:
"Never mind his 'ed, my lord; I ain't a-going
to ride on his 'ed." Indeed, what is called the
perfect model horse is by no means the best.
A horse's constitution may be too good. Horses
of a very hard nature, and very closely ribbed
up, are large feeders with great barrels, and do
not make brilliant hunters. They require so
much work to keep them in place and wind,
that their legs suffer, and often give way
when their constitution is in its prime. Horses
with moderate carcases last much longer, and,
provided they are good feeders, are usually
bright and lasting enough, if otherwise well
shaped. Finally, a hunter should be well
seasoned. Few five-year-old horses are fit to carry
a gentleman across country; for he cannot be
sufficiently experienced to take a straight line.

About fifteen hands two inches is the best
height for a hunter. His action should be
smooth, or it cannot last. The movement of
the fore legs should be round, not high; the
horse should be quick on his legs, as well as
fast.—It was now time to go.

"Good-bye, Mr. Hawkes" (for such, as
Pepys's contemporaries would have written, is
our hero's name); " but," we add, taking a last
look at the picturesque old house, and thinking
of the buried treasure, " do you ever find any
old coins in your garden?"

Mr. Hawkes does not believe that money
ever grew in his garden; but his wife speedily
produces " three old halfpennies, sir, that we
found digging the potatoes last year."

A little pocket-file removes the rust of two
centuries, and something like pure gold appears
beneath.

"Wash them well in strong vinegar, and look
at them again," was my advice.

"Would you like to have them, sir?" says
Mrs. Hawkes, with a blush of hesitation which
would have become a duchess.

"Why, no, thank you; but, if they do turn
out to be gold, it is just possible that they may
have once belonged to a certain Mr. Pepys."

The evening shadows lengthen along the
grass; the mist begins to rise where the land
lies very low. I must go, but not until I have
mounted one of the trainer's pupils.

A game young horse comes up, sniffing the
wind, and looking kindly at a fence leading into
the field.

"Does he bridle well, Mr. Hawkes?"

"Perfectly!"

And he does; he goes quite quietly at his
fence, takes me over without hanging an
ounce on the bit, and then to the Huntingdon
station.

So I return to London, more satisfied than
ever that kindness is the best teacher, horse or
man, the wide world over, and pleased enough
with my holiday.

THE SPIRIT OF YOUTH.

'Twas night; perchance the shadows deep my
wondering sense beguiled:
Methought, amid the firelight gleams, like to a soul-
clad child,
A gentle spirit rose and stood before my face and
smiled.

Its lambent eyes had all the glow of life's first spring-
like tide,
And thus I knew, full surely knew, though long ago
it died,
I and my buried youth were standing friendly side
by side.

No grace was gone, no touch of time had dimmed
the fearless glance;
The tireless footstep swept the floor like to a floating
dance;
And I felt the clear, shrill, flute-like voice strike
through me as a lance.

Yet, but for one soft, fitful touch of pain all sudden
thrown
From brow and eye to tender lip, like cloud on
sunlit down,
So glad this soul of youth, I had not known it for
my own.

"Send forth," it cried, "thy new-born grief to walk
the world with me,
Nor bind it captive to thy breast, a slave that would
be free;
If but it followeth where I go, all shall be well with
thee.

"Thou mad'st of me a sorrow once, when I was rath
and fair;
Thou mak'st of me a sorrow now that whitens all
thine hair,
Because, deep-searching in thy heart, thou find'st I
dwell not there.

"My spirit is about thee still: thou callest, and I
rise.
Despair shall conquer not while thou beneath these
spirit eyes
Walk pure the dark ways of the earth when all its
daylight dies.

"Thou saw'st me go in anguish once: I come once
more to trace
If yet thine heart may courage draw from looking on
my face;
For sorrow on the front of youth it hath a strange
dead grace.