call “the old times.” But I cannot say if the “Sport” is improving; I fancy not. I was talking to Walter Hickenbotham the other day, the doyen of the profession of trainers, or at least one running in double harness in that capacity with old Harry Rayner, of Randwick. Walter was recalling the “old days” of his youth. Meetings were fewer then, and railways were a comparative rarity where his paths led him. Mr. C. M. Lloyd was his “boss.” Riding a mare and leading Swiveller, Walter would leave the station on one of those beautiful, bright, health-giving mornings of the late summer or early autumn, with just a touch of frost in the clear air. The boy, with the buggy and the gear, the feed, and all the other necessaries, had gone on before. From station to station, ’twixt sunrise and sundown, the little cavalcade would press steadily on. Mr. Lloyd, no doubt, would follow in a few days with his tandem or the four-in-hand. And so from meeting to meeting they would go. Round Wagga, Hay, Bathurst, Deniliquin, Gundagai, Goulburn, a great circuit, would they wander, taking with them the romance and glamour of the Turf in their train. You can imagine the stir and enthusiasm at the stations as they came. Nothing was too good for them, either for man or beast. Everyone welcomed them, and the old greybeards, in the evenings, beneath the big gum tree, while the boxes were being done out, and the horses meanwhile were held in the shade, would talk horse, and nothing but horse, by the yard. Some might even remember having seen Rous’ Emigrant or Manto, and another might have come from Yorkshire, and had known all about Sledmere and Sir Tatton Sykes. And the racing was more for the fun of the thing then, and the owners betted more like gentlemen between themselves. And ere the country circuit was completed, horse and man had travelled almost a thousand miles, and had won many a Cup, and much fine gold. And then, calling in at the station to drop their burdens, they would be off to the Metropolis to take down the numbers of the swells which trained there, ere settling down for the short, dark winter days at home. Good days those, jolly days, grand days! And is it not so good now? No? Alas! I fear that it is not in the sport, not in the horses, not in the world at large, that we find changes for the worse. All things are developing, evolving, marching upwards. It is in us, the individual men, to whom we must look to find “the weary change.” And yet even we must take comfort. “Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’ We are not now that strength which in old days Moved heaven and earth; that which we are we are.” PAINTINGS OF RACEHORSES BY MARTIN STAINFORTH The figures in brackets are the Bruce Lowe family numbers of each horse. (†) signifies no family number. [Illustration: PLATE 2.