She is too blasé to get excited about anything except another cow, with whom she might have to fight for the leadership of the herd, but she shewed in every line of her face and form that sheep were something new to her and that she didn't think much of them. The colts were the most excited of all. They ran around the sheep in large circles, snorting and shying. Whenever they crossed the tracks of the sheep they seemed to catch the unaccustomed scent like hound dogs and their excitement increased amazingly. Finally they got the sheep frightened, and in order to prevent trouble, we had to put the colts in another field. Though several days have passed the colts do not seem to get used to their new neighbours, and they snort with terror whenever they have to pass the sheep pen. It is quite evident that they cannot be allowed to run together for some time.
The arrival of the sheep on the farm caused me to give them some attention, and the more I meditate on them the more I regret that we did not go in for sheep-raising long ago. They have opened to me an entirely new field for articles. I had never realised how completely and intimately sheep are bound up with the history and literature of mankind. In symbolism they date back to the earliest chapters of Genesis. It might even be shown that we owe much of our civilisation and learning to the care of sheep. Shepherds have been poets since the time of David and earlier, and they have even figured among the rulers of the world. The Biblical patriarchs were all shepherds, and in the history of Egypt we have the Hyksos dynasty—the fierce shepherd kings, who ruled, I think, for six hundred years. One has only to let his mind wander over literature and art to realise that man and sheep have been companions from the dawn of history. Pastoral poetry is a distinct branch of literature, and what would landscape painting be without woolly bunches in the middle distance to represent sheep? I understand that it is to the shepherds we owe the sciences of astronomy and algebra, and they have also made contributions to medicine and botany. It was of a shepherd that Touchstone said: "Such an one is a natural philosopher." Perhaps the most up-to-date contribution to civilisation that we owe to the shepherds is the ancient and royal game of golf. It began with the shepherds who whiled away their hours knocking about a woollen ball with their shepherd's crook. Assuredly the sheep will furnish me with an ample field for research, investigation, experiment and nonsense of all kinds. I may even be able to get some political hints from them, because of their habit of following a leader. I look forward to a pleasant and profitable winter studying the children's sheep.
[XX.—The First Lamb]
In spite of the persistent cold weather there has been enough excitement on the farm to send up the temperature several degrees. One day last week, when the mercury was sulking at zero, three lambs arrived on the place. Alas only one survived, in spite of tender care and the best advice of all the experienced sheep-raisers in the neighbourhood. One died at once and another followed a few hours later, though it was carefully fed and tucked in a warm nest beside the kitchen stove. The mother sheep could not be induced to take any interest in the weakling. One of her lambs was strong and vigorous, and to it she gave her whole care, seeming to know by instinct that nothing could save the others. And it is doubtful if she could have saved the one we have if we had not shared the cares of motherhood with her. At nightfall the thermometer went down and down until it reached 12 below, and the new lamb began to lose interest in this cold world. The frost penetrated to the snug box-stall, and the poor little lamb shivered and refused to pay attention to its mother. She pawed at it to make it get up, but it couldn't get on its feet. So we wrapped it in a horse-blanket and took it to the nest beside the stove. For the next couple of days we kept it warm and carried it to its mother for brief visits at meal times. In that way we kept it from being chilled to death, and now that the weather has moderated it is living with its mother and being much admired. But I am afraid that some of the interest taken in it is rather sordid. When the excitement was at its highest I found a boy studying the market reports. He was looking up the price of wool.
Like all the other live stock on the farm, the lamb has a name of its own. Its owner informed me that it is to be called Mary Belle. Why he was so superfluous as to give it two names I did not inquire. The name sounded good to me—the sound of it reminded me of how: