; but there is much more to be told.

When I started Pretty Pierre on his travels, I did not know--nor did
he--how far or wide his adventurers and experiences would run. They
have, however, extended from Quebec in the east to British Columbia
in the west, and from the Cypress Hills in the south to the Coppermine
River in the north. With a less adventurous man we had had fewer
happenings. His faults were not of his race, that is, French and
Indian,--nor were his virtues; they belong to all peoples. But the
expression of these is affected by the country itself. Pierre passes
through this series of stories, connecting them, as he himself connects
two races, and here and there links the past of the Hudson's Bay Company
with more modern life and Canadian energy pushing northward. Here
is something of romance "pure and simple," but also traditions and
character, which are the single property of this austere but not
cheerless heritage of our race.

All of the tales have appeared in magazines and journals--namely, 'The
National Observer', 'Macmillan's', 'The National Review', and 'The
English Illustrated'; and 'The Independent of New York'. By the courtesy
of the proprietors of these I am permitted to republish.

G. P.

HARPENDEN, HERTFORDSHIRE, July, 1892.

THE PATROL OF THE CYPRESS HILLS

"He's too ha'sh," said old Alexander Windsor, as he shut the creaking
door of the store after a vanishing figure, and turned to the big iron
stove with outstretched hands; hands that were cold both summer and
winter. He was of lean and frigid make.

"Sergeant Fones is too ha'sh," he repeated, as he pulled out the damper
and cleared away the ashes with the iron poker.

Pretty Pierre blew a quick, straight column of cigarette smoke into the
air, tilted his chair back, and said: "I do not know what you mean by
'ha'sh,' but he is the devil. Eh, well, there was more than one devil
made sometime in the North West." He laughed softly.

"That gives you a chance in history, Pretty Pierre," said a voice from
behind a pile of woollen goods and buffalo skins in the centre of the
floor. The owner of the voice then walked to the window. He scratched
some frost from the pane and looked out to where the trooper in dog-skin
coat, gauntlets and cap, was mounting his broncho. The old man came
and stood near the young man,--the owner of the voice,--and said again:
"He's too ha'sh."

"Harsh you mean, father," added the oth