"Very well—that's she. I'd like to talk real elegant like you, Prince."
"Are you an American lamb?" I asked quickly.
"It's hard to say what I am," he replied mysteriously. "They call me the Wandering Lamb."
"Why 'Wandering'?"
"'Cause I wander, wander. Legs wander, mind wanders, and sometimes I feel so old. The ancient ram," and he nodded toward the crown of the hill where Silver Hoof, King of Muskoka, stood calmly contemplating the landscape, "first called me that."
"Perhaps," I said, "you have lived before."
"I think I have," he replied in a dreamy voice, "'cause sometimes I get up on my hind legs and try to walk. Perhaps I was a boy of some kind—maybe a prince."
"What do you dream about?" I asked.
"Oh! fighting, always fighting. I give dreadful whacks, but not with my noble brow."