that Mr. Freeman means to give them every chance, is that the services of Bendigo, Galopin, Chitabob, Melton, Ayrshire, Master Kildare, Boulevard, Saraband, Paradox, Kendal, and Lowland Chief are to be requisitioned this season, in addition to those of his home sires.

I have alluded to some of the seventeen yearlings in speaking of the mares, but I was much impressed by two of the fillies, one a daughter of Rosicrucian and Arrowroot, by Toxophilite, and the other, curiously enough, also a granddaughter of the late Lord Derby's best racehorse, this being a chesnut filly by Kendal-Shaft, by Toxophilite. The latter is a very deep filly, with great power, and I liked her even better than another filly by Kendal, whom Mr. Freeman was near securing as a sire at the time his owner sold him to go to Ireland. The chesnut colt by Barcaldine-The New Magdalen is very smart; and another of the same colour by Charibert-Heedless, by Blair Athol, is a credit to his sire, who, I was sorry to hear, is not the best of foal-getters. One does not, of course, see yearlings to advantage in the early days of January; but I shall be much disappointed if, when the July Sales come round, I do not find Mr. Tattersall obtaining a reply in the affirmative to his question of "any advance upon a thousand?" for more than one of the Heather Stud team.

ATHELSTAN.

My First and Last
Last Football Match.

THERE are some people who seem made to cover themselves with glory and mud in field sports and outdoor games. To my mind, there is nothing more distasteful than one of these creatures, "Good all-round men!"-"Muscular Christians!"— call them what you will. They are so huge and so healthyhave such enormous capacities for running, walking, shooting, eating, drinking, and sleeping-that their very existence is an embodied sneer at their less fortunate fellow men. Nothing comes amiss to them; they will spend the whole day in some violent exercise, dance all night (and with the prettiest girls, too), and be up the next morning at six. And, what is more, they thrive on it!

My friend Bunter is one of these animals. He is always worrying you to feel his muscle or measure his calf, while he takes more pride in his stupendous chest measurement than any woman does in a small waist. He has only one redeeming point-and that is his sister Beatrice. It was to please Beatrice Bunter that I played my first and last game of football.

Now I have not the slightest wish to cry down our winter

national game. Do we not all know what it has done for British physique? Waterloo, it has been said by somebody somewhere, was won in some playing fields or other; but still, in the face of this statement, and at the risk of being called a coward and a white-livered sneak, I'm sure-for anything I know about it my liver may be as white as wool-that football is really a most unpleasant game.

However, when Beatrice exclaimed one day, "Oh, Mr. Foozleton, how nice you'd look in a pink jersey!" I determined to do or die! For aught I then knew, I might possess some extraordinary and preternatural innate power, hitherto undeveloped, of collaring, touching down, throwing forward, or of doing any of those seemingly easy actions which evoke rounds of applause on the football field. I must confess. judging from my signal failure at all other manly sports, that I had not very great hopes of success. At golf, I never could hit the ball; at cricket, the ball always hit me; at tennis, I always hit too hard. Still, in my mind's eye, I pictured myself kicking goal after goal, as collaring all who should dare cross my path; and, finally, as carried off the field by my excited companions, while Beatrice was clapping her small gloves together till they split.

The eventful day came! And so did my jersey! A pink one not being attainable, this consisted of alternate stripes of all the colours hitherto discovered, and a few others as well. Beatrice subsequently decried it as being loud; but, as I told her, its brilliancy was the very reason why I chose it; for how else would she distinguish me from the mere common herd? I can now quite understand the mistakes which missionaries tell us savages make over the first herald of civilisation-a pair of breeches. I had a hand-to-hand struggle with that jersey: I took at least half an hour in getting into it, though I must admit when I did succeed in getting it on it fitted like a glove, and like an uncommonly uncomfortable glove too.

When I arrived at the scene of action I found that I was a quarter of an hour late, and that they had begun without me. This fact, combined with the shouts to " hurry up," flurried me considerably. I took off my coat and entered the lists, feeling very like an early Christian about to face an arena-full of uncommonly ferocious lions. Bunter seemed to be greatly struck with my jersey; but as there was no time to express admiration, bade me play "three-quarters," and kick as much as possible. I gladly accepted this post; for from the little I knew of the game, I had concluded that it was a remarkably conspicuous position, and one in which it would be easier to win applause than as a mere menial forward. I had barely had time to collect myself when I saw the ball rolling rapidly towards me, pursued by some twenty breathless youths, evidently thirsting for my blood. I naturally concluded that

my kick would have more effect if I accommodated myself to the motion of the ball, and hastened it on its way, than if I faced it and its pursuers. Consequently, as it approached me, I turned and dealt it a kick which I flattered myself would materially assist my side. I was preparing to bow to the applause which, as I supposed, would naturally follow this spirited action on my part, when what was my surprise to find it greeted with roars of laughter from the spectators and yells of rage from my companions, among whom Bunter was the first to me for a duffer. To my horror I found that I had kicked it the wrong way; and I was hastening to apologise when once more I saw it rolling towards me. I determined this time to refrain from kicking it, but to pick it up, and, if possible, to blot out my recent disgrace by a splendid run, worthy of receiving special mention in the next day's newspaper. No sooner had I picked it up, and whilst I was yet meditating in which direction to urge on my wild career, than a great, coarse, hulking brute (who might really have shown better manners) rushed at me, and without so much as a" by your leave," seized me round the waist and hurled me. heavily to the ground; where he continued to hold me tightly and to shout "Held." This remark-if intended for me--was unnecessary, as I informed him with pardonable sarcasm.

By the time I had recovered from this shock to my system, I descried the ball and players at the other side of the ground, whither I hastened to join them, when Bunter proceeded to inform me in forcible rather than polite language to "go forward." I thought of Beatrice, and, swallowing his abuse, went forward, waving my hand and crying "en avant" to a knot of friends who had assembled purposely to see me play. To tell the truth, I was only too glad to have an opportunity of hiding my diminished head in the depths of the "scrum." But this was the difficulty. I could not hide my head. I put it down and shoved in the orthodox manner; and after a short interval I found myself upright in the centre of the seething mass, buttressed up, as it were, by some fourteen heads, all apparently shoving in opposite directions. I never realised till then how many and how hard are the bumps concealed by the human hair. My sensations were diametrically opposed to those that must have been experienced by the classical personage who was torn to pieces by wild horses. I am firmly convinced that, while I was thus the centre of attraction, one abandoned youth-in order to ensure keeping his place took between his teeth a considerable portion of the fleshy part of my leg, thus causing me the most acute anguish. This was, however, to a certain extent allopathically alleviated by someone else treading firmly and heavily upon my toes. By dint of thumping the backs (the only part visible) of those surrounding me I managed to escape from my

unpleasant condition, and was much relieved shortly afterwards by a cessation of hostilities-half-time being called.

After a few minutes' interval spent in taking in lemon-juice and the sarcastic advice of my friends (I can't say which of the two was the more acid), the game was resumed; and one of my side gained a try, to which I materially contributed by collaring and putting hors de combat the referee, whom I had hitherto taken for some commanding officer on the other side, exhorting them by the strains of his whistle.

Bunter-bearing in mind my stupendous though erring kick in the earlier part of the fray-entrusted the attempt at goal to me; and having brought forth the "leather" (I believe this is the correct term) prostrated himself before me and asked me how I liked it. I answered, glibly enough, "Straight up and down!" though I had not the slightest idea what I meant. I was preparing to send it flying gracefully over the cross-bar, when Bunter, like an impetuous idiot, put it down without giving me any warning, upon which incident the other side rushed at me like one man. I did not, however, lose my presence of mind; but, retiring a few paces, advanced at a run, and letting fly a tremendous kick, suddenly experienced the sensation of having broken my leg off short just above my boot. When I recovered, I found I had embedded my foot several inches in the ground, while the ball was lying peacefully where it had been placed-" straight up and down!

This was too much! I had really hurt my foot; and in spite of the vials of wrath poured forth on my head, I spent the next quarter of an hour as a spectator, sitting upon the ground.

When my foot had recovered, I joined once more in the game, and I was relegated to back, that being (in this case at all events) an unenviable post, in which I had nothing to do except shiver. It was about this time that the rain came on, and that I once more incurred the abuse of my side-and the jeers of the populace by putting up an umbrella. This was, in my opinion, the wisest thing I did in the whole afternoon. But as I had no wish to make Bunter really angry, I furled it, after having practically demonstrated to him that the crooked handle would have been of the greatest service in upsetting foes. This feat, he insisted, was unsportsmanlike; and further said, unkindly, that I had better stop playing altogether or else join the other side.

The rest of the match was a painful dream, or rather nightmare. I went forward again, and when I was really scrumming hard on the outskirts of the heaving mass, I was told not to "screw." When I seized the ball, and carried it in triumph for fifty yards, much surprised at finding no one pursue me, I was called ignominiously back; and I found, to my disgust and the amusement of the spectators, that I had been off-side, or had committed some such heinous offence. Finally, when I had

determined to collar a man who was running rapidly towards me with the ball, the great coward deliberately aimed at my head, and, kicking the ball, dealt me such a blow (I could not have imagined a piece of inflated leather was so hard) that I went through the rest of the game half-stunned; and I decided that the safest policy was to keep some ten yards or so behind the ball.

But the unkindest cut of all was to come. On the way home I overtook Beatrice, and she cut me-cut me dead! That game of Rugby resulted in my being sent to Coventry.

The Horse of the Steel-clad Warrior.

THE Tudor Exhibition, now being held in London, affords, in the quaint suits of ancient armour which are there shown, ample corroboration of the view put forward a twelvemonth or more ago by the author of a recent little book, entitled "The Old English War Horse." He there gave reasons for thinking that horses, to be capable of carrying mail-clad warriors into battle, must have had the substance and character of the Shire horse; and he inferred the great probability which there must be held to be, that this modern breed represents, not the agricultural teams of the days of chivalry-for all the heaviest farm-work was then done by oxen-but the horses which, in that period of turmoil, were selected for their ability to carry into conflict the weight of a strong man, of his armour and · their own. Every visitor to the Tudor Exhibition, whose ideas of cavalry horses are founded upon what he has himself seen on parade, must, without this hint, be perplexed in his mind by the endeavour to form a conjecture how the weight of all that iron ever could have been sustained at all in action by any horse. It is no doubt a wonderful thought that such coats of mail were borne on horseback; and it needed the assistance of familiarity with the formation of the modern Shire horse to guide one to the conception that his prototype would not have been unable to perform the feat.

In the old Sporting Magazine, vol. 35, published more than half a century ago, a correspondent says:-"The collection of military curiosities, which has recently passed under the hammer of Mr. George Robins, affords some curious illustrations of the way in which horses used formerly to be laden with cartloads of metal. But conceive a horse out of your stable to be so caparisoned. First, with a huge cover of jointed steel, denominated a manepiece, extending from the poll down the mane to the withers, and lapping over on either side,