rs to the bidders from Vienna, St. Petersburg, London and
Chicago, will, for the future, figure as only so many untanned hides,
as per bill of lading, instead of precious peltry or--supposing you to
have sight and insight--"the lives o' men."

Our first stopping place is Battenberg, by the Sturgeon River. The
place is not named for the lace as you might conjecture, but in honour
of the son-in-law of her late Majesty, Queen Victoria. It is here the
rural telephone wire comes to an end but if you are inclined to be
finicky, it is not well to telephone. I tried it and had a
conversation with Central in the which she expressed her opinion of me.
I cannot complain that it was not informing.

The motor in which we travel has a record, not for speed, but as having
made the farthest north trip on its own power. Last winter, Jack Kydd,
our chauffeur, took it down the Athabasca River, on the ice, as far as
the Pelican Rapids--that is to say, 225 miles north of Edmonton. "The
make of the car?" you ask. I would tell you straight off and, later
on, would endeavour to collect a bonus from the manufacturers were it
not for the uncompromising prejudice of the publishers and their
editors. Men are like that.

But I was telling you about Jack Kydd! His talent as a chauffeur is
one that trails no feathers and he is a fine, likely looking lad. This
day, I saw him pull the remains of a stump out of the road without
breaking the axle. Such a performance should be rated as a religious
act like the planting of the pipal tree in India.

All the way along, our road is contested by farmers' dogs who surge out
from the shacks in a vain endeavour to regulate our speed. The dog is
an incurable motophobe who says everything profane about motors that
can be said.

Here is a morose young bull contesting the high way with us, refusing
to budge an inch, and facing the motor with a menace. He is a
grim-visaged brute and built for battle like an ironclad. His
challenge to combat is a very dagger stroke of sound. Although the
M.P. wagers fifty dollars on the motor, we do not try conclusions, but
discreetly take to the side of the road at an angle that is truly
appalling.

Even the calves are not afraid of the car and make their perilous bed
in the middle of the road, thus causing us to reduce our pace to a
legal one. Indeed, the only animals frightened of it are the horses.
Its huge black snout and great goggle-eyes must make it seem t