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" THE ladies will have to rough it," said Sargent; "but it isn't often that you'll get a chance now-a-days to see a real old-fashioned Spanish rodeo, and I think it will be worth your while to come."

Nine of us accepted his invitation— Lizzie, the animal-painter, whose next year's picture is to be a vaquero lassoing a wild bull; Joseph, the figure-painter, with a sprained ankle, who rode in slippers; Bel, a young lady who sketches and carries a pug-dog in her arms; Vinole, shortened into Nolie, fresh and sweet as a pink, whose pretty name is Hawaiian for peace; Antonio, a handsome young Spaniard, who sings with a fine baritone and twangs a guitar beneath a fair lady's window with all the grace and sentiment of his ancestors from storied Castile; Sam, the boy of eleven, with a taste for history, who supposes any remark a feint to extract historical information, which he imparts with a cheerful alacrity not always appreciated; Nelly, myself, and, last but not least, Bob.

Without Bob we should be lost indeed. Bob builds the fires; Bob mends the furniture—makes it at a pinch; Bob white washes the ceilings and the fences; Bob harnesses the horses; Bob poses for the artists. In fact, Bob does whatever no one else likes to do, and is more than repaid by a few kind words and a glass of whiskey, a fondness for spirits being Bob's only failing, the one blot on his escutcheon. But in consideration of his many virtues, his readiness to oblige, his kind heart, his childlike faith in human nature, his fidelity to his friends, his thou-