of the pasture. Poor Bert! This was the first great grief of
his life. Had Brownie been a human companion, he could hardly have felt
his loss more keenly or sorrowed more sincerely. The little, empty
stall, the brass-mounted bridle, and steel-stirruped saddle hanging up
beside it, brought out his tears afresh every time he looked upon them.
Frank did his best to console him by offering him the use of his pony
whenever he liked; but, ah! though "Charlie" was a nice enough pony, he
could not fill the blank made by Brownie's loss.

In the meantime Mr. Lloyd had been making diligent inquiry about a
successor to Brownie, and had come to the conclusion to await the annual
shipment from Sable Island, and see if a suitable pony could not be
picked out from the number. The announcement of this did much to arouse
Bert from his low spirits, and as Mr. Lloyd told him about those Sable
Island ponies he grew more and more interested. They certainly have a
curious history. To begin with, nobody knows just how they got on that
strange, wild, desolate, sand bank that rises from the ocean about a
hundred miles to the east of Nova Scotia. Had they the power of speech,
and were they asked to give an account of themselves, they would
probably reply with Topsy that "they didn't know--they 'spects they
grow'd." There they are, however, to the number of several hundred, and
there they have been ever since anybody knew anything about Sable
Island. And such a place for ponies to be! It is nothing but a bank of
sand, not twenty-five miles long, by about one and a-half wide, covered
here and there with patches of dense coarse grass, wild pea vine, and
cranberry swamps. There are no trees, no brooks, no daisied meadows, and
through all seasons of the year the ponies are out exposed to the
weather, whether it be the furious snow storms of winter, the burning
heat of summer, or the mad gales of the autumn.

Once a year the Government officials who live upon the island, having
charge of the lighthouses and relief stations, for it is a terrible
place for wrecks, have what the Western ranchmen would call a "round-up"
of the ponies. They are all driven into a big "corral" at one end of the
island, and the best of the younger ones carefully culled out, the rest
being set free again. Those selected are then at the first opportunity
put on board a ship and carried off to Halifax, where rough, shaggy,
ungroomed, and untamed, they are sold at auction to the