he is reproved for being
in the wrong, he accuses Milda of it and bites the back of her neck. So
bad has this become that whenever I yell "Prince!" in a loud voice, Milda
immediately rabbit-jumps to the side, straight ahead, or sits down on the
lead-bar. All of which is quite disconcerting. Picture it yourself. You
are swinging round a sharp, down-grade, mountain curve, at a fast trot.
The rock wall is the outside of the curve. The inside of the curve is a
precipice. The continuance of the curve is a narrow, unrailed bridge.
You hit the curve, throwing the leaders in against the wall and making
the polo-horse do the work. All is lovely. The leaders are hugging the
wall like nestling doves. But the moment comes in the evolution when the
leaders must shoot out ahead. They really must shoot, or else they'll
hit the wall and miss the bridge. Also, behind them are the wheelers,
and the rig, and you have just eased the brake in order to put sufficient
snap into the manoeuvre. If ever team-work is required, now is the time.
Milda tries to shoot. She does her best, but Prince, bubbling over with
roguishness, lags behind. He knows the trick. Milda is half a length
ahead of him. He times it to the fraction of a second. Maid, in the
wheel, over-running him, naturally bites him. This disturbs the Outlaw,
who has been behaving beautifully, and she immediately reaches across for
Maid. Simultaneously, with a fine display of firm conviction that it's
all Milda's fault, Prince sinks his teeth into the back of Milda's
defenceless neck. The whole thing has occurred in less than a second.
Under the surprise and pain of the bite, Milda either jumps ahead to the
imminent peril of harness and lead-bar, or smashes into the wall, stops
short with the lead-bar over her back, and emits a couple of hysterical
kicks. The Outlaw invariably selects this moment to remove paint. And
after things are untangled and you have had time to appreciate the close
shave, you go up to Prince and reprove him with your choicest vocabulary.
And Prince, gazelle-eyed and tender, offers to shake hands with you for
sugar. I leave it to any one: a boat would never act that way.

We have some history north of the Bay. Nearly three centuries and a half
ago, that doughty pirate and explorer, Sir Francis Drake, combing the
Pacific for Spanish galleons, anchored in the bight formed by Point
Reyes, on which to-day is one of the richest dairy regions in th