By the village artist Mr. Lord had been photographed astride his "Snowden," mounting and dismounting. The instantaneous representations of the tyro cracking his stock-whip were not quite successful. Rejected by the ardent knight, the artist retained copies which attracted attention after Mr. Lord's departure for "a peep at the old country."
The tell-tale camera depicted hat sent spinning far afield by the unaccommodating whip; which had, as Tom remarked, a remarkable affinity for his head, round which it coiled with boa-like affection.
Old "Snowden" was less patient, when the snake-like thong wound about the creature's ears, or inserted itself beneath his tail. He resented the indignity in a fashion that caused the Englishman anxiety as to "the tenure of his seat."
The gentleman-rider, as he liked to be styled, would, in true bush fashion, look after his own stable. True, his long-suffering steed raised objection to his currying its slender legs. The combing of its tail, when the flies were playful, caused anxious moments. Tom, nevertheless, had reason to be proud of the animal's glossy coat. Its food he administered in strict accordance with directions contained in a library of yellow-back works he collected on "The Horse," "The Pig," "The Cow," "My farm and four acres," with other such bucolic manuals.
Alas! an evil day arrived. "Snowden" ate without a relish. Had he been licking salt too much? That must be removed.
The hay might be sour, the oats musty; Tom would complain at the granary.
Yet another day and "Snowden" refused food entirely, actually lay down in his stall, the picture of misery, and, later, seemed to be considering the advisability of de-
