of his brethren:

"When the present breed of wild ponies was introduced, there is no record.
In an old print, seemingly a hundred years old, they are depicted as being
lassoed by men in cocked hats and antique habiliments. At present, three
or four hundred are their utmost numbers, and it is curious to observe
how in their figures and habits they approach the wild races of Mexico or
the Ukraine. They are divided into herds or gangs, each having a separate
pasture, and each presided over by an old male, conspicuous by the length
of his mane, rolling in tangled masses over eye and ear down to his fore
arm. Half his time seems taken up in tossing it from his eyes as he
collects his out-lying mares and foals on the approach of strangers, and
keeping them well up in a pack boldly faces the enemy whilst they retreat
at a gallop. If pressed, however, he, too, retreats on their rear. He
brooks no undivided allegiance, and many a fierce battle is waged by the
contending chieftains for the honor of the herd. In form they resemble the
wild horses of all lands: the large head, thick, shaggy neck of the male,
low withers, paddling gait, and sloping quarters, have all their
counterparts in the mustang and the horse of the Ukraine. There seems a
remarkable tendency in these horses to assume the Isabella colors, the
light chestnuts, and even the piebalds or paint horses of the Indian
prairies or the Mexican Savannah. The annual drive or herding, usually
resulting in the whole island being swept from end to end, and a kicking,
snorting, half-terrified mass driven into a large pound, from which two
or three dozen are selected, lassoed, and exported to town, affords fine
sport, wild riding, and plenty of falls."

Thus much for Sable Island.

"Dark isle of mourning! aptly art thou named,
For thou hast been the cause of many a tear;
For deeds of treacherous strife too justly famed,
The Atlantic's charnel--desolate and drear;
A thing none love, though wand'ring thousands fear--
If for a moment rest the Muse's wing
Where through the waves thy sandy wastes appear,
'Tis that she may one strain of horror sing,
Wild as the dashing waves that tempests o'er thee fling."[H]

[H] Poem by the Hon. Joseph Howe.

And now pony we must part. Windsor approaches! Yonder among the embowering
trees is the residence of Judge Halliburton, the author of "Sam Slick."
How I admire him for his hearty hostility to