"We'll never eat Lammie-noo," said the younger girl indignantly, "Dad says so."
"Does the lamb always sleep here?" Dallas asked the black-haired girl.
"Yes, his mother was a pet before him, and this was her bed-place. I'm sorry the bears got her," and the girl looked very sad.
"What's that black stuff hanging under his chin?" asked Dallas. "It looks like beads."
"I must shave him again," said the girl soberly. "It's clotted milk on his wool. He sticks his head down in the pail to drink, and his wool gets messed up with the milk and then he lies down on the earth and it turns black. He's a great little boy to eat lying down—aren't you, Lammie-noo?" and she patted him.
The lamb winked at me. I was quite surprised, for I had fancied him rather stupid-looking. I should have known better. Any living thing has some brains.
Having finished with the lamb, the children gathered round me. My head, neck, throat, withers, chest, shoulders, knees, legs, feet, body and tail all came under discussion. They knew, the clever young ones, that a pony's points like a child's points should harmonise. Even the baby lifted one of my forefeet and peered at it knowingly, saying as he did so, "Heelths open, frogths thound."
After they took me to pieces, they put me together again by making me walk, trot and gallop. Then they pronounced me a well-shaped pony, but my chest was a trifle too wide and my fetlocks were too small. However, my action was fine.
Then each one of them took me for a ride, but such a short one that I wondered, until I remembered that their father had said they had ponies of their own, so I was no treat to them.
The black-haired girl was the only one who did not mount me, and as she stood a little aside Dallas said to her, "I wish you would tell me your names again. Not one of them has stuck in my memory."