I write, therefore, to learn, if possible, where I can get a good red or gray fox that will come home nights. I had a fox last season for hunting purposes, but he did not give satisfaction. He was constantly getting into the pound. I do not want an animal of that kind. I want one that I shall always know where I can put my hand upon him when I want to hunt. Nothing can be more annoying than to be compelled to go to the pound and redeem a fox, when a party is mounted and waiting to hunt him. I do not care so much for the gait of a fox, whether he lopes, trots or paces, so that his feet are sound and his wind good. I bought a light-red fox two years ago that had given perfect satisfaction the previous year, but when we got ready to hunt him he went lame in the off hind foot and crawled under a hen house back of my estate, where he remained till the hunt was over. What I want is a young, flealess fox of the dark red or iron-gray variety, that I can depend upon as a good roadster; one that will come and eat out of my hand and yearn to be loved. I would like also a tall, red horse with a sawed-off tail; one that can jump a barbed wire fence without mussing it up with fragments of his rider. Any one who may have such a horse or pipless fox will do well to communicate with me in person or by letter, enclosing references. I may be found during the summer months on my estate, spread out under a tree, engaged in thought. E. FITZWILLIAM NYE. Slipperyelmhurst, Staten Island, N. Y. [Illustration: SUTTERS CLAIM] IMITATED. Say! _you_ feller! _You_-- With that spade and the pick!-- What do you 'pose to do On this side o' the crick? Goin' to tackle this claim? Well, I reckon You'll let up agin purty quick! No bluff, understand,-- But the same has been tried, And the claim never panned-- Or the fellers has lied,-- For they tell of a dozen that tried it, And quit it most onsatisfied. The luck's dead agin it!-- The first man I see That stuck a pick in it Proved _that_ thing to me,-- For he sorto took down, and got homesick, And went back whar he'd orto be! Then others they worked it Some--more or less, But finally shirked it, In grades of distress,-- With an eye out--a jaw or skull busted, Or some sort o' seriousness. The _last_ one was plucky-- He wasn't afeerd, And bragged he was "lucky," And said that "he'd heerd A heep of bluff-talk," and swore awkard He'd work any claim that he keered! Don't you strike nary lick With that pick till I'm through; This-here feller talked slick And as peart-like as you! And he says: "I'll abide here As long as I please!" But he didn't.... He died here-- And I'm his disease! Seeking to Be Identified CHICAGO, Feb. 20, 1888. [Illustration]