est of poetry in all sport worth the name, let
squeamish and sentimental persons declaim against it as they may.
Strength and endurance, disregard of suffering have a permanent appeal
and value, even in their coarsest manifestations. No doubt the noble
gentlemen of the neighbourhood, who "lay at Brockhurst two nights" on
the occasion of Sir Denzil's historic house-warming, to witness the
mighty bear-baiting, were sensible of something more in that somewhat
disgusting exhibition, than the mere gratification of brutal instincts,
the mere savage relish for wounds and pain and blood. And to Sir
Denzil's latest descendant the first sight of the training-stable--as
the pony-carriage came to a standstill alongside the grass plot in the
centre of the great, graveled square--offered very definite and
stirring poetry of a kind.

On three sides the quadrangle was shut in by one-storied, brick
buildings, the woodwork of doors and windows immaculate with white
paint. Behind, over the wide archway,--closed fortress-like by heavy
doors at night,--were the head-lad's and helpers' quarters. On either
side, forge and weighing-room, saddler's and doctor's shop. To right
and left a range of stable doors, with round swing-lights between each;
and, above these, the windows of hay and straw lofts and of the boys'
dormitories. In front were the dining-rooms and kitchens, and the
trainer's house--a square clock tower, carrying an ornate gilt vane,
rising from the cluster of red roofs. Twenty years had weathered the
raw of brick walls, and painted the tiling with all manner of orange
and rusty-coloured lichens; yet the whole place was admirably spick and
span, free of litter. Many cats, as Dickie noted, meditated in sunny
corners, or prowled in the open with truly official composure. Over all
stretched a square of bluest sky, crossed by a skein of
homeward-wending rooks. While above the roofs, on either side the
archway, the high-lying lands of the park showed up, broken, here and
there, by clumps of trees.

Mr. Chifney slipped out of the saddle.--"Here boy, take my horse," he
shouted to a little fellow hurrying across the yard. "I'm heartily glad
to see you, Sir Richard," he went on. "Now, if you care, as your
father's son can't very well be off caring, for horses----"

"If I care!" echoed Dickie, his eyes following the graceful chestnut
filly as she was led in over the threshold of her stable.

"I like that. That'll do. Chip of the old blo