After the morning meal the lambs began to frolic. They raced across the pasture. They bounded over the stones that lay in their way. They seemed to plan their plays as children do, and everywhere Lambkin White was the leader.
Suddenly, he left his companions and ran to a large, flat rock. Upon this he jumped and stood waiting. Every lamb followed him. What the new game was called in sheep language no one can tell. But they chased one another like boys in a game of tag.
The sun crept up the sky and the air grew hotter. And now the sheep stopped eating grass. They turned, all together, into a path that led to their drinking place.
But to-day they could find no water. Instead of the spring which had bubbled out from under the great rock there were only stones and dry sand.
Down the hill the flock slowly wound its way, looking for water. But Lambkin White did not walk with the flock. He ran here and there. He climbed rocks and hid behind trees. Indeed, could the mother sheep have spoken, she would have called him a very troublesome lambkin.
The pasture sloped down to a piece of low, wet land. A wooden bridge or trestle had been built across the marsh for a railroad track. Trains of cars rolled over this high bridge nearly every hour of the day.
On came the sheep to the very edge of the swamp. Here they found black mud, but not a drop of water to drink.