I am sure that I have travelled more miles in my life than any other horse ever born and have displayed through it all more hardihood than any, save perhaps Mayfly, whose famous career has been recited many times in circus camps. He antedated me many years. They tell of his standing trip of one hundred and ninety days from Sydney, Australia, to Valparaiso, Chili, and his subsequent rough overland journey to various parts of the republic and back again to the Pacific Ocean. Then he was taken by water to San Francisco, a three months’ trying experience, and later around the southern continent to New York. It was enough to wreck the finest constitution, but he never flinched. He and his sister, Black Bess, were of pure Arab extraction, and some of the finest horses in California to-day date their parentage from them. As bareback performers they have had few superiors. Then I remember, too, many renowned animals of my time. The Russian horse Zib, who was poisoned in Mexico, achieved fame more for his tricks than his ring exhibitions. Dan Rice’s horses Excelsior and Excelsior, Jr., although both blind, were wonderfully intelligent. Obeying their master’s directions, they would grope to a pedestal, place the left foot on its staff, bend the right leg gracefully and incline both ears forward as if in the act of listening. How often have I, in an adjacent ring, seen the veteran clown turn proudly to the audience and heard him announce: “Mark well the beauty of the curve of the right leg, which strikes the eye of the sculptor. Horace Greeley calls them the horses with souls of men!” Levi J. North’s horse Cincinnatus was probably the first “dancing” equine, and Stickney’s Tammany was the best jumper that ever came to my knowledge. Wicked Will, owned by Spalding and Rogers, eclipsed most animals in difficult feats of various kinds. Rarey’s horse Cruiser, although never a circus performer, was invaluable to his owner in horse “taming” exhibitions, and seemed to execute his duties with human intelligence. Thus I live again the days of old and unfold the roll of my eventful history. My thoughts travel fondly back to the scenes I am to behold no more, and my heart throbs with emotions excited by their reminiscences. I remember those gone to their rest and shed a tear to their memory. For myself, only ignominy and mental anguish. I, who have been an honor to my birthplace and an ornament to my race, wearily await the final summons. In the array of names of illustrious circus horses, may my memory be cherished faithfully is the hope of miserable TOM KEENE. CHAPTER XII THE CIRCUS BAND BY BANDMASTER WILLIAM MERRICK