lish officer, a first-rate shot, when from the reeds which abound near the river, as high as a man's head, a snipe and bittern-a bird always found alone, and now seldom found at all-rose, the snipe to the right the bittern to the left; the young Englishman fired, the snipe fell, when turning rapidly he discharged his second barrel, and much to our boyish delight the bittern fell. Meanwhile Seagull' also fired, or fancied he fired, and moreover felt assured that he it was who killed the bittern, and in his frantic delight rushed through the reeds to secure the prey. Not so the Captain, like all good sportsmen he loaded again, without a word as to claiming the bittern, which we boys certainly gave to Seagull, who overjoyed soon returned with his prey, and after sundry sacre blues and mon Dieus as to the splendour of the bird, also proceeded to load. Great was our consternation, as great his disgust, however, when ramming down the charge to find his ramrod at least eight inches above the barrel; in fact, he had never fired at all, the cap had exploded but not the charge, and he fairly succumbed at the knowledge and surprise when he found that the two birds had been killed so cleverly. And I must admit his apologies were equal to his admiration. Admirable' he delared, a 'brave,' a 'noble garçon,' he knew he killed the bird, yet not a word escaped him till he had sufficient proof that I had never fired. Such scenes as these were of daily occurrence, and pleasant indeed they were in those juvenile sporting days lang syne. So you see, darling, I long once more to visit the scenes of my early sporting, and with you and my boy by my side it will be pleasant indeed; and now's the time, the 'monkey' I have won shall be spent on a foreign tour. You have never seen France, or Switzerland, or Italy; moreover, the French Derby is about to come off at Chantilly, and the Grand Prix follows shortly at the Bois, so brush up your French, and early next week we will cross the channel under pleasanter circumstances than I crossed it thirty years long past, and we shall return across the border with increased love of home and knowledge of the world. I'dinna ken,' as Mac was wont to say, whether the dear fellow would be disposed to join us, or probably meet us for the Grand Prix, at all events I shall let him know of our intentions; and now to bed."

I need scarcely add that Mrs. Piggy fully and cheerfully acquiesced as to the mode and manner of spending the "monkey," and the following week a happy trio of Piggies commenced their foreign tour.

(To be continued.)

THE FIRST SPRING.

ENGRAVED BY E. HACKER, FROM A PAINTING BY E. CORBET.

Newmarket is eminently conservative. The First Spring Meeting is so called because it happens to be the Second; but then it always has been so called-a very sufficient reason, of course, for making no alteration. The Second Spring Meeting, however-so far the tamest of the tame-promises to be revived, and all kinds of improvements are talked of. A new stand is to be built, a new gallop to be made, the Heath to be railed in, and so forth. Such reforms as these, coupled with Sir Joseph Hawley's, Lord Coventry's, and Colonel Forester's amendments, should go to set racing up again; provided always Admiral Rous does not feel it imperative on him to write any more letters to The Times which shall tend to prove, by the most curious of contradictions, that nothing could possibly be so injurious to the interests of the Turf as to legislate against its abuses.

"Newmarket Heath is seen to the best advantage in every respect on a fine day during one of the less popular meetings. Let a votary of racing run down to Cambridge, and, after staying the night there, ride over to Newmarket on the following morning. The road is a good one, and all along it there is good going on each side. About four miles from the town you turn off from the road to the Heath itself at the beginning of the old Beacon course. Then you have a magnificent stretch of elastic turf all the way to the end of the Heath at the finish of the Cambridgeshire course. No galloping ground in England can compare with it." This is nonsense! at least, just that last sentence or so. Did The Pall Mall sportsman, from whom we take our extract, ever try a gallop over that long range of westward down from Ilsley to Russley, that "flows on in an ocean of unbroken plain?" We have tried them both have gone by the byeways for miles and miles, without our thorough-bred hack ever breaking from his canter, and have had in turn a spin over Newmarket Heath. But when a gentleman, grounding his argument on a magnificent stretch and elastic turf, goes on to declare there is no galloping ground in England like this said Heath, then we feel prone to inquire if he has ever galloped elsewhere? Let him, the next time he careers over this "stretch," ask of Matthew Dawson as to the relative merits of the Suffolk and Berkshire downs, or ascertain from Dover or Tom Stevens all about the elasticity of the Ilsley turf, as compared with that of the Beacon course. Still, there is nothing like mixing it up stiff. "There is no such galloping ground in England," says one man, and a goodly half of the world is quite ready to say ditto to Mr. Burke. The finish of The Pall Mall paragraph is better: "On a bright spring morning no sensation can be finer than a sharp gallop over the Heath with the prospect of a quiet day's racing before

you and a pleasant ride back in the evening to a good dinner at Cambridge." This is well put, for we have always thought it a great relief to get out of Newmarket when the day's racing was over; as unless you do nothing but bet or shake your elbow, it is the very stupidest place in the world of an evening, and we say so much with quite as great confidence as our friend, "if he will allow us to call him so," speaks of the galloping ground. And now even "the bones" are to be banished, and the Sunday train "service" put a stop to. Verily, what with all this, and the Jockey Club's proposed discountenance of very light weights and very early racing, Newmarket is going at last to set us an example; provided always that Admiral Rous does not feel it necessary to write another letter to The Times clearly demonstrating that any such corrected conditions will be an interference with the liberty of the subject, however much he himself may regret the consequences to which these evils are conducing. Surely there never was such another instance of any man writing so resolutely up to the meliora probo, deteriora sequor!

But Reform is to reach even from Newmarket to London, and if the police are instructed to seize the hazard box, they are equally well advised as to how to deal with all the miserable machinery of the "specs" and lotteries-the books and "result sheets" and tickets "enough to fill four hampers," and the monies "in small coin," amounting to fifteen hundred pounds or so. And then how can the shop-lads and artizans who so readily pay over their shillings stand such evidence as this? Inspecter in disguise, loquitur: "I received the result-sheet produced from Sergeant Sullivan, and found that the ticket 72,374, which I purchased, was a £1 prize. On April 7 I went about two in the afternoon and was told by a little girl that there was no one at home. I returned again about three o'clock, found Morris and Walker at the door, and followed them into the office. Morris said, 'I'm afraid we have kept you waiting.' When I presented the ticket, Walker asked me the amount of the prize. I said, 'I believe, £1.' I handed the ticket to Morris, who said, 'What is the matter with it?' I said, It has got some ink on it, apparently.' After looking at it, he had some conversation with Walker, in an undertone, their backs being turned to me, and Morris turned to me and said, 'We can't pay this, that's all about it.' I called his attention to the fact of the number on the ticket being quite plain, that it was not injured, and that it was purchased of them. They refused to pay it, and I left the office. I endeavoured to get the money, and they argued against it."" Of course they argued against it! and we argue against it, for these wretched "specs" and lotteries do more harm to sport than any other possible contrivance, and all true friends to racing will go with the determination to put them down.

And so they are going to bring out a new edition of old Sam Chifney's Genius Genuine, not as it strikes us as a very genuine book, and we happen to possess one of the only half-dozen copies or so said still to be about. And the price is to be a guinea, almost as preposterous a figure as the five pounds, at which the work was first "sold for the author at 232, Piccadilly, and nowhere else." Even with a charitable object, it seems scarcely worth while to revive all the dead-and-gone scandal about the in-and-out running of the Prince of