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wins, and the young chief, "YELLOW HAND," drops lifeless in his tracks after a hot fight. Baffled and astounded, for once in a lifetime beaten at their own game, their project of joining "SITTING BULL" nipped in the bud, they take hurried flight. But our chief is satisfied. "BUFFALO BILL" is radiant; his are the honors of the day . . . Fomr Page 35.

THE GREAT ARTIST, FRED. REMINGTON, WRITES FROM LONDON TO "HARPER'S WEEKLY."

The most noted depicter of Western scenes of the present day is without doubt the eminent artist, Mr. Frederic Remington. HIs study of the subject render him a most competent judge. In returning from an expedition in Russia, passing through London, he visited Buffalo Bill's Wild West, and it is with pride that the projectors point to his indorsement, standing side by side in artistic merit as he does with the grand artiste, Rosa Bonheur;

The Tower, the Parliament, and Westminster Abbey are older institutions in London than Buffalo Bill's show, but when the New Zealander sits on the Londond bridge and looks over his ancient manuscripts of Murray's Guide-Book, he is going to turn first to the Wild West. At present every one knows where it is, from the gentleman on Piccadilly to the dirtiest coster in the remotest slum of Whitechapel. The cabman may have to scratch his head to recall placdes where the traveler desires to go, but when the "Wild West" is asked for he gathers his reins and uncoils his whip without ceremony. One should no longer ride the deserts of Texas or the rugged uplands of Wyoming to see the Indians and pioneers, but should go to London. It is also quite unnecessary to brave the fleas and the police of the Czar to see the Cossack, or to tempt the saves which roll between New York and the far-off Argentine to study the "gauchos." They are all in London. The Cossacks and "guachos" are the latest edition, and they nearly complete the array of wild riders. There you can sit on a bench and institute comparisons. The Cossacks will charge you with drawn sabres in a most genuine way, will hover over you like buzzards on a battlefield - they soar and whirl about in graceful curves, giving an uncanny impression, which has doubtless been felt by many a poor Russian soldier from the wheat fields of central Europe as he lay with a bullet in him on some distant field. They march slwoly around over imaginary steppes, singing in a most dolorous way - looking as they did in Joseph Brandt's paintings. They dance over swords in a light-footed and crazy way, and do feats on their running horses which bring the hand-clapping. They stand on their heads, vault on and off, chase each other in a game called "chasing the handkerchief," and they reach down at top speed and mark the ground with a stick. Their long coat-tales flap out behind like an animated rag-bag, while their legs and arms are visible by turns. Their girp on the horse is maintained by a clever use of the stirrups, which are twisted and crossed at will. They are armed like "pincushions," and ride on a big leather bag, which makes their seat abnormally high.

The "gauchos" are dressed in a sort of Spanish costume, with tremendous pantaloons of cotton and boots made of colt's skin, which in their construction are very like Apache mocassins. They carry a knife at their back which would make a hole which a doctor couldn't sew up with less than five stitches, if, indeed, he was troubled at all. They ride a saddle which one of the American cowboys designated as a "-feather bed," and amuse the audience by falling off at intervals.

The great interest which attaches to the whole show is that it enables the audience to take sides on the question of which people ride the best and have the best saddles. The whole thing is put in such