Though a good horseman and forward rider, he never knows one horse from another if they are anything at all alike in colour; and it is the same with dogs. If you were to put any of his own retrievers along with some others, and ask him to point out those which belonged to him, he could not do it to save his life. Two rather funny incidents happened to him from this cause, the first with a horse, and the second concerning a dog. One season he had a particularly good-looking bay, but finding it too hot for him he determined to sell, and so sent it up to London to a dealer, whom, when old Jimmy Holden had nothing that suited, he was wont to employ, getting a hundred guineas for it. A short time after he went to town himself, and going to the same man's yard was struck with the appearance of a good-looking bay, and bought it at a hundred and forty guineas. When the horse came down to his stables the stud-groom came in and said to him: "Why, sir, you didn't tell me as how you'd bought The Prince again." "Prince, you fool," replied the Major; "I've not bought The Prince." But he had, and had also paid forty guineas, besides railway fares, for the animal's trip to London and back. The other affair, though perhaps almost telling more against himself, was not so expensive. He had given his friend, Lord Acres, a black retriever with a high character and a long pedigree, and had made no little parade of the gift. A few weeks afterwards he was shooting at Home Wood (Acres' place), and the dog was out. According to his usual custom, Bowles was grumbling at everything; guns, birds, cartridges, weather, and his servant all came in for their share. At last he pitched on the dog, and turning to his host during the process of lunch, he said: "Can't think, Acres, where you manage to pick up your dogs! Look at that mongrel brute there. Never saw such a beast in my life. He's only fit to run behind a butcher's cart." "Why, Major," replied his lordship, roaring with laughter, "that's looking a gift-horse in the mouth with a vengeance. It's your own dog that you gave me." Bowles acknowledges now that for once in his life he wishes he had not spoken. It is a beautiful morning for hunting. The late frost--which, though it lasted but a week, was sharp--is well out of the ground, and everybody who owns anything with four legs, besides a number who are dependent on their own, have turned out with the hounds at Mickleborough Green.