As I was sitting down one day to allow my horse his rest and feed, I noticed a red-coated gentleman riding along in the valley below, and soon saw that he was a non-commissioned officer of the regiment quartered at the time at Natal; he had a gun, and was evidently out taking his pleasure, on leave for a day's sport. He drew all the kloofs and grass that I had tested half an hour before, unconsciously passing over my plainly written horse's footmarks, with a laudable perseverance that deserved success. Presently an eagle or large hawk flew past, and settled some distance on ahead; red-coat followed, and, when near the spot, tried to keep his horse steady; it did not seem to quite understand the matter, and decidedly refused to stand still. A little of the bullying usually practised by unskilled riders then commenced; he spurred the animal, and then chucked it in the mouth with the sharp curb; strange to say, this proceeding failed in making the stupid _equus_ more quiet. At last the man dismounted, and, carefully drawing the reins over its head, and taking the saddle off, he looked at his steed in a kind of suspicious way, but left it standing, and proceeded to stalk the eagle. He got up pretty close, when the bird flew away; he took aim, and--bang, bang!--produced not even the effect of ruffling a feather. Loading his gun, this unsuccessful marksman now returned to the horse, which, giving a shake of its head, turned round and walked quietly away. I heard shouts of "Wo! wo!" sent after the horse, with a heavy charge of strong language to propel them; still the animal did not seem to understand; the soldier's walk became a run, and so the horse galloped, and won the race easily, kicking up its heels in the excess of its joy. This was more than the warrior's temper could stand; he had missed the bird, but he thought he could manage the horse. Hot and enraged, he pulled up, and let fly both barrels at his charger. He seemed to have made a better shot this time, as the horse gave a jump, and started at speed towards home, while the soldier had the satisfaction of carrying his saddle for about eight miles under a burning sun, on a day when the thermometer would have shown 95 degrees in the shade. I would have given anything to have heard how this Nimrod described his day's sport to his comrades on his return home. Another somewhat similar case occurred about this time, with the exception that the gentleman _killed_ his horse, instead of merely driving him home; and the strangest fact was, that this representative of his stud was nearly the only animal that he did kill with a gun during his residence in Africa.