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turning me sharp around on my game leg on that smooth board Hoor, which uuqht to be thickly graveled. After all this monkey business he rides me through a big gate into a fence at the back of the stage, which doesn't do the least good, as there is nothing behind it. There we are made to stamp and clatter our hoofs on the floor before being led back to our stuable. In this "Carmen" nearly all of the stage people have striped stable blankets, very badly folded, but instead of wearing them properly, to keep their quarters warm, they carry them over their withers and let them slip down, to get in their own way and trip everybody up. Then they keep talking about the conductor and minding his signals, but I never saw the sign of a conductor or heard the clang of his gong. Except the name of the opera, the nearest approach to a street car I have observed is that rickety big machine covered with colored lights that they drag in with ropes in "The Huguenots." They keep firing guns in the street, which, I thought, is contrary to city ordinance; but I suppose they are a Tammany crowd with the "right pull."

That "Huguenots" is very queer. Sometimes I am led on the stage with a side-saddle and ridden by a very heavy woman, whom ecveryone calls "La Regina" (what a name!) at the top of their lungs. They say she is a queen, but she's no queen, or she would behave more like a lady, and not kick up such a rumpus squealing about the stage, allowing people to give her so much back talk, besides arguing and fighting among themselves and making a most dreadful noise by imitating the sound of drums. Some nights, when there is a heavy snowstorm and the going is so bad that the stableman who has charge of me won't go out, four men carry this queen on the stage in a miniature brougham, with the body painted with the flashiest sort of colors. It has not a bit of its running gear left; I suppose its wheels and axles got completely smashed in one of those "blocks" outside the stockholders' entrance, where they don't look out for their live stock and the drivers try to pole cach other's carriages, while the police have bets on the show and don't pretend to keep order.

I hate that chorus most of all. It is always in my way, pushing and crowding my legs so that I am afraid I will step on someone and get a licking, even if I do it by accident. I wish they would sell that chorus of girls; they are a perfect nuisance. When they are not making a noise all together they keep whispering and giggling and winking at the men in the audience in the most knowing way. I wonder if they expect them to give them some feed, after the big storm apron is unrolled and let down at the end of the last act.

If only they would let us off from appearing in that grand march in "Faust"! But no matter how loud they sing "Oh, no, we'll never do so any more," they never stick to their word, and it makes me feel positively vicious that, in spite of their solemnly promising this, before witnesses, we are sure to be billed for the same thing next week.

But the noisiest of all is the "Wagner Cycle," though I never could see or hear any signs of wheels about it. They force me on the stage in the charge of different very stout women who are always named Brünhilda, which must cause the greatest confusion in giving the stable orders. They call me their "noble courser Grane," though there are never any oats about, for I have looked everywhere. Even on the coldest nights these women are always harnessed with tin bridles, saddles and martingales, and are protected by a big tin dashboard, so high that no horse could kick over it, though he might dent it badly. Perhaps they are afraid I may bite them, but they forget the length of my teeth, and I certainly don't feel like trying as long as they feed me lumps of sugar out of their hands when they are not busy neighing and whinnying at the top of their lungs, or pawing the air with their front feet. Why can't they be