in poor condition, some being badly drifted. The race proceeded without any extraordinary incident until the foot of Shaker Hill, on the northern side, was reached. There the horse plunged through a big drift. But the sleigh stuck. The tugs and other parts of the harness snapped, and the racer was soon clear of the rigging. But not clear of the spry and resourceful Hobbs, for he held to the reins, jumped the dasher, pulled in the steaming steed, mounted, and rode the long hill to the Ricker House at a smart canter. Here he was received with due ceremony by Sam Mills, Wentworth Ricker's trusty horseman, who had a fresh team in readiness. It seems that Hobbs's mishaps were bunched in this short section of the ride, for Sewell Brackett, who stabled and rubbed down his horse, says that on turning too sharply into the yard, the rider was thrown and pitched into a big drift. As before, he was uninjured, and little time was lost. Meantime, the precaution of strapping on the mail-bag had justified itself.

Thus the ride went on, up and down the hills of Oxford, with now and then a cheer at the taverns and stores, and, so far as I can learn, without untoward event. The going got much better beyond Bethel, and Hobbs crossed the State line and rode into Gorham, New Hampshire, man and horse in good form. Here Bodge took up the running, under much the same conditions, except that he had to wait for fresh teams to be harnessed, as there was no means of sending word ahead after the advance guard had been passed at Paris Hill. Waterhouse caught on at St. Hyacinthe, Quebec. He had the shortest of the three runs, and the best roads, and rode in record time into Montreal, where he was given the keys and freedom of the city and all that goes with them, which — they tell me means much or means little in Montreal, according to the capacity of the hero. Let us hope that he was a modest hero, and bore the responsible burdens of hospitality wisely and not too well. The newspapers of Canada made much of the

event, and the arrival of Waterhouse was ceremoniously announced in the Canadian Parliament in session at the time.

But what of the Boston riders? - Had n't been heard of. Nobody seemed to know where they were or cared. There's nothing quite so uninteresting in Montreal - or anywhere else as a loser. The Maine route and the Maine drivers had won, and won handsomely. They were the fellows! You will get some idea of the extent of the winning when you appreciate that at the moment when Waterhouse delivered his mail-bag at the Montreal PostOffice, the mail by way of Boston was somewhere between Newport, Vermont, and St. Johnsbury. The distance by the carriage road of those days from Portland to Montreal was about three hundred miles. The run was made in twenty hours, or an average of about fifteen miles an hour.

I cannot say how much influence, if any, this famous ride had on subsequent enterprises, but within a decade the Grand Trunk Rail