I shall try and tell you about a Jamaica sky meeting, given by the Garrison Gymkhana Club, I went to about a week ago. The drive down there is eight miles, and is very pretty. The hard white road winds along, some of the way, beside a deep, lovely, tropical valley with a narrow musical little river leaping and tumbling among big gray rocks, half the time hidden by the dense green foliage, and then springing out in a silver waterfall. On the other side of the road the tall brown mountains rise up almost straight, with jagged rocks sticking out of them. A little beyond this are broad fields, some planted in sugar-cane, and of a brilliant green, others with tall golden-brown grass sweeping to the foot of the mountains.

As we swing around corners we come upon occasional squads of negro women peasants with the customary baskets of miscellaneous products, fruit and vegetable, on their heads, and some driving donkeys similarly loaded in panniers. They scatter in all directions as our coachman cracks his whip without deigning to slow up. At last we reached our destination and took our places on the grand stand. In front of us was a big square plain. To the left, Long Mountain, while to the right lay the Caribbean, its shores fringed with cocoanut-palms. The centre of the field contained the refreshment tent.

The grand stand now began to fill up, and soon the first race was called. While they were preparing for this we saw about a score of musicians in zouave uniform marching up from the barracks. These constituted the West India band. They were all negroes, and some had brilliant-colored turbans on, and some little caps with tassels. Lots of the Newcastle soldiers were there, and their scarlet coats and white helmets made a vivid bit of color. Officers on horseback galloped about with white and red flags shouting out directions. The zouaves were now in position, and the band-master, who was white, with a uniform to match, and a huge mustache, soon started the music. We watched him with delight as he kept time with his wand, making the delicious gestures that only a band-master can make.

The racers were mostly polo ponies, mostly of thirteen hands. I won two of the races; one on a little gray, and the other on a slender black with a graceful head. We left after the sixth race, while the band played with as much vim as if for the first—"God save the Queen!"