With that the plucky fellow crawled back into the niche, put the two little eaglets in his bag, thrust his leg through the loop, grasped the rope with both hands, and was safely lowered to the floor of the canyon. Within a few feet of where he landed lay the old mother-eagle. Williams staggered over to her and gave her a kick. To his amazement she moved, stood up on her feet, and flew away! One of Williams’s companions came sliding down the rope, and reached him just as the injured man fainted from loss of blood and excitement. The punishment he had received was terrible, but fortunately his eyes had escaped injury. After casting off the rope the third man made his way down the mountain to where Williams and his friend were. They managed to stop the flow of blood, and between them got the wounded man on his horse and brought him to Riverton. Williams spent several days in bed and was covered with bandages for two weeks, but received no lasting injuries. As souvenirs of his terrible fight, he has two little eagles and a dozen or more big scars to show his friends. UP IN A BALLOON. BY A. SODEN. It was a delightful September afternoon some six years back--the close of a week during which there had been much discussion in the newspapers concerning a great balloon race versus cyclists, to be fought out on this identical Saturday. The late Rev. G. M. Bacon, of Newbury, the “ballooning parson,” and Mr. Percival Spencer, the well-known aeronaut, were to compete against Volunteer cyclists in an endeavour to settle the much-debated question as to whether, in time of war, a hostile balloon could escape from the speedy military wheelman. I am not a Volunteer, and certainly was at that time far from being a balloonist; I am less so now. [Illustration: MR. A. SODEN, WHO HERE DESCRIBES HIS EXPERIENCES IN A RUNAWAY BALLOON. _From a Photo. by Sternberg & Co., Kingston-on-Thames._] At four-forty-five in the afternoon of this particular Saturday, while I was still debating what to do with myself, what should I see to the north-east but the war balloon, released from its anchorage at Stamford Bridge grounds, being carried by a gentle September breeze in the direction of Epsom. At all times the sight of a balloon excites peculiar interest, and I had soon made up my mind--I would try my hand at catching the aeronauts, and try to beat the military cyclists! I rushed for my machine, and was presently in full chase, pedalling fast through the lovely lanes of Malden. On and on I went, riding hard, alternately glancing at the road to see that all was clear and then at the balloon, calculating how high it was, how far away, and where it was likely to descend. [Illustration: THE BOY WHO WAS WITH MR. SODEN IN THE BALLOON. _From a Photograph._]