If the supply of horseflesh is to be maintained, if we are not prepared to let the breed die out altogether, then horse racing is the only method whereby the standard can be preserved at a proper and efficient level. Shows, agricultural and otherwise, are powerless in their endeavour to accomplish this end. Magnificent looking creatures bred for the ring, only too surely and quickly prove themselves to be abject failures when tested on the course or in the field. Vitality, stamina, courage, soundness, are the qualities which we desire to perpetuate in our breeds. The show ring does not test a single one of these. The winning post must be our only guide. Is it doing its duty in the matter? This might be a matter for endless debate, but it is safe to say that it is not doing that duty nearly so well as it might. For in our play we are so apt to forget that, after all, it is not only sport that we are following, but that perhaps the safety of our Australian nation lies in the qualities of endurance and of speed in those beautiful creatures which we are looking upon as our playthings of to-day. One’s mind invariably flies, whilst thinking over these matters, to a future and a possible “War of Defence.” Britain, let us imagine, is hampered with a Continental foe. America is on her back, and fighting for her life upon the seas. And we are lying here in the sunshine, a beautiful woman without means of defence, without oil for our motors, without ammunition for our guns, without horses for our men. With ammunition, and with half a million of splendid horses, and even more splendid men, we might do wonders, even without oil, until help could arrive. Without horses and ammunition we would be immediately destroyed. And we are not taking the trouble to breed chargers and transport horses for the purposes of war. Indian buyers, private dealers, your own eyesight, will tell you that we are not producing the quantity, nor the quality which we were so proud of fifty, forty, aye, even thirty years ago. We have become careless. Our young men do not desire the glorious companionship which their fathers enjoyed, that loving friendship between horse and man. They fizz through their stations now in a motor car, or possibly they even fly through the air to the back of the run, and are home for luncheon. Their sires and their grand-sires on these distant excursions camped out for nights, their saddle for a pillow, their horses, in hobbles, not far distant from their side. My young gentleman of to-day could do it all if he tried, but he does not care to ride, and hunting is a bore. But what will his son be? It is the old, old story. Read your Gibbon, study your Grote. “All Empires tumble, Rome and Greece, Their swords are rust, their altars cold.”