CROSSING THE ATLANTIC.(See “[The Old World Too.]”)
WHITE AS WOOL.
WOOL is not always white. Its owner sometimes is black—was born black. It can’t help it, you see. Sometimes, however, it gets into the dirt, and the snowy wool becomes dirty.
Sometimes it creeps among the burned stumps and logs, and soon looks as black as the stump itself.
Now what happens? The shearer does not want to clip off such stuff, and the merchant can’t sell dirty wool, nor can the weaver weave a nice shawl from it; and, if he did, no clean Pansy would want to put it on week days or Sundays.
What then? It must be washed. The dirty black sheep must be put into the water, and washed and washed and washed.
Then let him go up from the water and give himself a good shaking and stand in the green grass and let the warm, shining sun dry its hair—I mean wool.
Now it is white and soft and beautiful, and if Mr. Sheep could see himself in the looking-glass he might be proud of his beauty.