The musical little laugh that accompanied this sally had something of foreboding in it. For a while the path lay across prairie solitudes, unrelieved, save by a lively divergence now and then by the cattle, made in the spirit of mischief. Often, too, a "prairie hen" would run on before the team, keeping a few feet ahead, then fly off, with a whirring sound, into the long grass. Seven miles, and "Slough Creek" was reached—a willow-fringed, bridgeless stream. Alighting, I was calculating, by the aid of a long pole, the depth of water and mud, and the steepness of the banks, when I was forced to run for the wagon, and managed to jump in behind, just as it was going into the gulf, for the brindles had concluded to wait no longer. Down we went, with a plunge and a shock, and up the other side at a round trot, the freakish creatures keeping on, in spite of me, across a level meadow, through a bristling array of blackberry and other bushes, to a log-house. There they stopped. I got out to turn them into the path again, but they ran round and round the cabin. In a few moments a woman came out, and comprehending my trouble, seized the whip, and laying the lash on with her brawny arm, soon brought the cattle into subjection. They suffered her to guide them into the road. She disappeared, as I thanked her in pantomime—for she was a Norwegian, as unable to speak my language as I hers, and the brindles would not act as interpreters, yet that they understood her perfectly, and my English somewhat, I could not doubt. It was once more "smooth sailing," and as the beasts behaved for a time with exemplary steadiness, for want of something else to do I fell to reconsidering the figure I had just cut, and trying to comprehend the character and qualities of my horned steeds. What sagacity they showed in choice of opportunity when about to execute a wild prank! How ungovernable they became toward me, yet obedient to a woman's voice and hand! I at once recalled a humorous description I had read of pig-driving in Ireland. The writer says, wittily, there was in Ireland an old breed of swine, which is now nearly extinct, except in some remote parts of the country, where they are still useful in the hunting season, particularly if dogs happen to be scarce. (He assures John Bull, on the authority of Phil Purcel, pig-driver, that this is a fact.) They were a tall, loose species, with legs of an unusual length, with no flesh, short ears, as if they had been cropped for sedition, and with long faces of a highly intellectual cast. They were also of such activity that few greyhounds could clear a ditch or cross a field with more agility. Their backs formed a rainbow arch, capable of being contracted or extended to an inconceivable degree; and their usual rate of travelling in droves was at mail-coach speed, or six Irish miles an hour, preceded by an outrider to clear the way, whilst their rear was brought up by another horseman, going at a three-quarter gallop!