"that the white chief can eat the
fox if he wants him. He's proud himself, bein' packed with store grub."

The English onlookers heard and beheld with blank faces. It was beyond
them.

The M. F. H. bowed stiffly as Hole-in-the-Ground's offer was made known
to him. He regarded them a moment in thought. A vague light was breaking
in upon him. "Aw, thank you," he said. "Smith, take the fox. Good
afternoon!"

Then he wheeled his horse, called the hounds in with his horn and
trotted out to the road that led to the kennels. Lord Ploversdale,
though he had never been out of England, was cast in a large mold.

The three Indians sat on their panting horses, motionless, stolidly
facing the curious gaze of the crowd; or rather they looked through the
crowd, as the lion, with the high breeding of the desert, looks through
and beyond the faces that stare and gape before the bars of his cage.

"Most amazing! Most amazing!" muttered the Major.

"It is," said Mr. Carteret, "if you have never been away from this." He
made a sweeping gesture over the restricted English scenery, pampered
and brought up by hand.

"Been away from this?" repeated the Major. "I don't understand."

Mr. Carteret turned to him. How could he explain it?

"With us," he began, laying an emphasis on the "us." Then he stopped.
"Look into their eyes," he said hopelessly.

The Major looked at him blankly. How could he, Major Hammerslea, know
what those inexplicable dark eyes saw beyond the fenced tillage--the
brown, bare, illimitable range under the noonday sun, the evening light
on far, silent mountains, the starlit desert!

FOOTNOTES:

[6] Copyright, 1905, by the Metropolitan Magazine Company.

A BOSTON BALLAD

BY WALT WHITMAN

To get betimes in Boston town, I rose this morning early;
Here's a good place at the corner--I must stand and see the show.

Clear the way there, Jonathan!
Way for the President's marshal! Way for the government cannon!
Way for the Federal foot and dragoons--and the apparitions copiously
tumbling.

I love to look on the stars and stripes--I hope the fifes will play
Yankee Doodle.

How bright shine the cutlasses of the foremost troops!
Every man holds his revolver, marching stiff through Boston town.

A fog follows--antiques of the same come limping,
Some appear wooden-legged, and some appear bandaged and bloodless.

Why this is indeed a show! It has called the dead out of the