The figure of W. J. Bryan on horseback is a familiar one in the city of Lincoln, a city where horseback riding has never been in vogue. Governor is a coal-black, high-spirited animal, and prances and pirouettes with nervousness at every halt. Mr. Bryan’s favorite ride is to his farm, four miles east of the city. Here, on a thirty-acre tract, he has for several years been making experiments in farming, or rather in endeavoring to discover whether he has forgotten the lessons instilled into his mind by his agricultural experiences in youth. Mr. Bryan insists that he is not a farmer, but an agriculturalist, and defines the difference tersely in this wise: “You see, a farmer is a man who makes his money in the country, and spends it in the town. The agriculturalist makes his money in town and spends it in the country.” Mr. Bryan has no intention of taking up the life of a farmer. Ten years ago, in the boom days of Lincoln, he purchased a five-acre tract close to the suburb of Normal. He had driven out east of the city one day, and at the top of a hill stopped to rest his horse. As he sat in his carriage the splendid panorama of field and house and tree unrolled before him. He was enchanted. Then and there he resolved to build a permanent home upon that spot some day. The original five acres cost him a good round sum, but his later purchases, made now and then, have been at greatly reduced figures. The buildings upon the farm are largely temporary in character. The house is a small one of five rooms, and shelters the man who does the real work on the place. Mr. Bryan has found much pleasure and recreation during the summer at the farm. During the planting season and in the weeks that followed, he made a visit daily and spent several hours “puttering” about, directing things here and bearing a hand there himself, at the harder tasks. In the rural atmosphere, away from the conventions of the city, he threw aside every care and every burden. His ordinary clothing was cast aside for the habiliments that distinguish the farmer at work. Mr. Bryan confesses to a weakness for high-top boots, in which his trouser ends can be hidden,—and then to work. The one singular thing about everything that this man does is that he is at all times able to preserve his dignity. There is nothing selfconscious about that dignity. In the West, that sort is dangerous to attempt. Simplicity is the dominant note in his character, his manners, his talk, his walk. His amiability is inexhaustible, his patience unending. If a delegation of Democrats passing through Lincoln do not have time to go out and see Mr. Bryan, Mr. Bryan finds time to ride down to the depot and see them. He has, since his nomination, made several speeches from horseback, to boisterous but zealous delegations, and always with the old charm and effect.