“At the first opportunity an ambulance was sent back to find the colonel and take him to the field hospital, some three miles in the rear. In the confusion no one had thought of Black Hawk, but it seemed he had not forgotten his brave rider, for he actually followed the path made by his colonel, or rather those who carried him to the hospital—almost tracking him by his blood—straight up to the hospital tent, and to the surprise of Colonel Bate, who had been badly but not seriously wounded in two places, one ball going through his shoulder, he poked his head in the tent door and affectionately whinnied to his master while the surgeon was dressing his wound. The next instant he walked a few paces in the weeds, staggered and fell down dead. An examination showed what no one had noticed: he had been badly wounded in several places, one of which proved fatal. General Bate says he can still see that almost human look Black Hawk gave him and that last pathetic whinny as he walked off to fall down and die.” [Trotwood has heard Senator Bate relate this incident himself and the last time he met the old warrior at dinner at the Maxwell House, Nashville, Senator Bate related the above incident and discussed very fondly the pedigree and value of the Southern breed of horses that could produce such intelligent animals as Black Hawk.] THE MEASURE OF A MAN By John Trotwood Moore [NOTE.—This story was begun in the November number of _Trotwood’s Monthly_. It opened with a pioneer horse race at the Hermitage, in Tennessee, in which Jack Trevellian, General Jackson and others had entered their horses. Trevellian was a young captain who had been in the Creek wars with General Jackson, and whom the old soldier loved very much. Trevellian was in love with Juliette Templeton, a guest of General Jackson. She had not promised to marry him, but was in love with him. She came to the race accompanied by Colonel Bristow, also in love with her. In the very graphic account of the race, the horse of an unknown boy, the son of an outcast woman, won, for which he was about to be beaten by those who had bet on the other horses, when Trevellian came to his rescue, claiming the boy was a Trevellian. “It is his son!” said someone to Juliette Templeton, and almost fainting she rode away from the field.] CHAPTER V An hour afterwards there was a halloo at the lower gate. It was answered by the dogs, who rushed out, barring the way, and stopping the newcomer at the entrance. According to pioneer custom, he sat on his horse till the dogs had been called in by their master. At a word from Trevellian they slunk back to their kennels. “Good evening, Jack—you were not expecting me, eh?” “I am just as glad to see you, General—ride in,” and he opened the gate with a quick, nervous jerk. “I was just about to have the blues,” he added—“yes, we all have them at times.”