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.
[Illustration]
_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:
"Winking Mary buds begin
To open their golden eyes,
With everything that pretty bin----"
Mary Belle--Mary buds. There is a distinct assonance, but it is a slim
one on which to hang a quotation. Still, the "Mary buds" reminded me of
spring--and that led to results. Lambs are always associated with spring
in literature, and why shouldn't they be in fact? My personal
recollections of lambs all coincide with days:
"Whan that Aprille with his showres soote,
The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote."
So what on earth was a lamb doing in this world in January? On inquiry I
learned that one must expect such things if he goes in for pure-bred,
pedigreed sheep that may take prizes at the fall fairs. Any lamb that is
born after 12 p.m. of December 31 of the preceding year is entitled to
rank as a spring lamb. When the fall fairs come round Mary Belle will
have the advantage of several months' growth over the lambs that come in
the springtime--"the only pretty ring time." This makes it look to me as
if prize-winning were rather more important than sheep-breeding. Poor
Mary Belle will have to spend the most frisky months of her life in a
little pen, instead of skipping about among the flowers, as a lamb
should. She is being robbed of her youth in the hope that she may win a
blue ribbon.
_XXI.--Sheep Surgery_
When I got home from the village a couple of evenings ago a bareheaded
delegation met me at the road gate with bad news.
"Strafe's leg--was chased by a dog--was broken--and I must set it--Oh,
the dog was a stranger--Strafe couldn't----"
At least that is what it sounded like. One thing is certain, and that is
that two excited boys can't tell a bit of news as quickly as one. After
both had blown off steam at the same time, I questioned them and found
that Strafe, one of the twin lambs, had his leg broken. It seems that a
stranger dog followed one of the children from the village in the
afternoon, and in spite of being told to "Go home, sir," he persisted in
following. But he no sooner reached the farm than he began chasing the
sheep. To escape him they rushed to the barnyard, and as the gate was
only partly opened they got jammed, and poor little Strafe, in spite of
his warlike name, had his leg broken. The dog was promptly chased away.
None of the family had seen him before, and they did not know who owned
him. Evidently he was a stranger. I was distressed to hear the news, for
there is something so gentle about lambs that one hates to think of them
suffering. In spite of his belligerent name, Strafe is an unusually
gentle creature that is ready to stand and be petted whenever any one is
in the humour to fuss with him. It almost seemed as if one of the family
had been hurt.
* * * * *
My first thought was that the lamb might have to be killed to put him
out of his misery. That is what usually happens to a colt that gets his
leg broken, and having heard of several that had suffered in this
way--or was it that they had a tendon cut on a wire fence?--I began to
see the gloomy side of the matter at once. Still, on second thought, I
reflected that a lamb with a limp might raise just as much wool and
mutton as one with the use of all his legs, but it was quite evident
that his prospects of figuring in the blue-ribbon class at the Fall Fair
were probably ended. This was quite a calamity in itself, for he is
pure-bred and the children had hopes of him. As quickly as possible I
got to the sheep-pen and looked over the little patient. He was lying
down in a comfortable attitude, though it was easy to see that his leg
was broken below the knee, as the crook in it was quite noticeable. He
made no objection to having me examine his leg, though it must have hurt
to have the broken bone handled. What surprised me was that there was no
evidence of swelling, though the bone had been broken for some hours.
Another strange thing was that the bones lay so loose. The parts barely
touched each other, though in cases of human fracture the bones
sometimes get drawn past. It was no comminuted fracture I had to deal
with, but a very simple case of simple fracture. Of course, the whole
family gathered around to make comments and give advice, and I quickly
found that I was expected to play the surgeon and give Strafe a leg that
would be as good as new. Though surgery had never come within my
experience in the past, I felt that this was no time for false modesty,
and prepared for action.
* * * * *
While making inquiries among persons of experience as to the best way to
proceed, I brought out the curious bit of information that surgeons use
only three splints when setting a human broken leg. My own instinct was
to use four, but being assured that the doctors use only three I felt
that there might be some mystic reason for it that was beyond the lay
mind and made my preparations accordingly. Strafe had been placed on a
bench, where he lay quite composedly while I took his measure for his
new set of splints, which I was whittling from a shingle. Apparently he
was not a bit frightened or distressed. Judging from his appearance he
seemed to think he was coming in for an extra lot of petting from the
boy who was holding him, and he seemed to be enjoying himself. Finally,
I got my splints ready, packed a bunch of loose wool around the broken
leg and then began to wind a cotton bandage around my somewhat clumsy
looking attempt at surgery. A visitor held the bones straight while I
was doing this and Strafe did not struggle a particle. Evidently a
lamb's sense of pain cannot be as acute as that of a human being. Though
I was as gentle as possible I am sure that my touch was clumsy and that
a broken bone in the human body if handled so inexpertly would have
caused acute suffering. The lamb neither struggled nor protested, but
allowed me to move the leg about and do what I liked with it. After it
was carefully bandaged he was set down on the ground, and hopped away on
three legs to where his anxious mother was waiting for him. Yesterday he
was feeding as usual, and as the splints were firmly in place I am
hopeful of a perfect cure. By the way, I wonder if they give prizes for
animal bone-setting at the Fall Fairs. I must find out.
_XXII.--The Patient_
The progress of Strafe, the lamb that had his leg broken, is about the
most surprising thing I have seen in a long time. One naturally thinks
of a broken leg as a serious thing, and it is to a human being, but it
doesn't seem to cause so very much discomfort to a lamb. Two days after
the accident I saw him taking part in a brisk game of "King of the
Castle" with Clarissa and Mary Belle. Of course he was hampered by his
game leg, which was bound up in the splints I had put on it, but he
found little difficulty in climbing to the top of a pile of hay that had
been thrown from the top of a stack and defending his position against
assaulting forces. Though he carried his leg in the air he could still
bunt vigorously, and though he sometimes got knocked over, he would
immediately return to the fray. Evidently the nervous system of a lamb
is not so sensitive as that of a human being. A child with a broken leg
could not be taking part in games so soon after the accident. Although
it is only a week since he was hurt I notice that he is already using
his leg, though with a very decided limp. It is still too soon to take
off the splints, so I cannot tell whether my attempt at bone-setting has
been a success, but folks of experience who have looked at him assure me
that his chances of figuring in the blue-ribbon class are ended. It will
be his destiny to figure as mutton. This is not only a disappointment,
but a considerable loss.
_XXIII.--Shearing_
The sheep changed their flannels this week and as the weather changed at
the same time, I am afraid they are not feeling very comfortable. With
wool at present prices, they were given a very thorough clip, and in
spite of the pleasant proverb the wind has not been tempered to them. We
have had the reliable north wind with which we have become quite
familiar this spring, and I was sure they would catch their death of
cold. I investigated to see that we had a proper supply of mustard and
goose-oil in case I should have to put plasters on their chests and give
them the proper dosing. But up to the present writing they seem to be
doing very well, though they keep on the lee side of the buildings and
of the hedge that runs along the road. They almost look uncanny in their
present condition of undress. It is surprising to see what a small sheep
emerges from the fleece when the shearing is done. The mother sheep look
very little bigger than their lambs. By the way, as those lambs already
have noticeable fleeces, I am afraid the warm weather will be rather
hard on them. One warm day last week I noticed Mary Belle, with her
mouth open, panting after a short run. What will it be like for her in
August, when we have real heat? While speaking of the lambs, I am glad
to report that my attempt at bone-setting proved fairly satisfactory.
Strafe is able to gambol about much as usual, though he limps a little
and is thinner for his experience. There is a lump on his leg where the
bone knit and those who speak with authority say that although he is a
fine lamb he must now be considered in the mutton class. But I am proud
of the fact that my efforts preserved his leg for everyday use if not
for show purposes.
* * * * *
As this has been the first sheep-shearing we have had on the farm in
many years, I was interested to note the improvement. When the boys
brought word that the shearers had arrived and were shearing the sheep I
hurried to the barn to view the operation. As I approached I heard a
sound like that of a cream separator, and was surprised to find that the
shearing was being done by machinery. With these tame, modern sheep
shearing is not the exciting process it used to be. The legs of the
creatures were not tied up in a bunch with a hame-strap to keep them
quiet. The shearer merely made the sheep sit on her hind-quarters, while
he tucked her head under his arm. He had a contrivance that looked like
a small mowing machine, and was busily cutting swaths of wool along her
sides. It was doubtless a great improvement on the old shears--the kind
that memory associates with boyish haircuts. I have always thought of
the shears by its Gaelic name, but it is past my power to spell it. It
was imitative of the sound made by the shears when in use. If you take a
pair of shears, close and open them and then try to pronounce the sound
you hear, you will have the Gaelic name. It sounds something like
"dwnguist." Pronouncing it is just as hard as it looks. One needs to be
born to it. I found that they had an old-fashioned shears with them to
clip off spots that the mower could not be put over safely, but it was
very little used. I noticed that the new method of shearing leaves the
sheep free from the ridges that used to be prominent features of
old-time shearings--and haircuts. I shouldn't wonder but they could cut
hair with these new machines, but as I have never seen anything like
them in even the most up-to-date barber shops they cannot be practical
for hair-cutting. But they are certainly the proper caper for
sheep-shearing.
_XXIV.--Vain Regrets_
John Milton was a noble poet, but he was not a safe guide in matters
pertaining to animal husbandry. For the ordinary man, the bulletins of
the Department of Agriculture are safer reading than the masterpieces of
literature. If it were not for John Milton I might to-day have a bank
account that would outshine "the wealth of Ormuz or of Ind." Just listen
to this piece of foolishness that I have been cherishing all these
years:
"Alas! what boots it with incessant care
To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade,
And strictly meditate the thankless muse?"
You couldn't expect me to go in for sheep-raising while giving that
quotation a place of honour in my memory, could you? The boys, not
caring for poetry, and caring much for the practical bulletins, obtained
my permission to go in for sheep-raising. Remembering the kind of sheep
we had when I was a boy, I thought they wouldn't be much trouble, as
they would pasture most of the time with the neighbours anyway. But the
boys didn't go in for that kind. They got pure-bred registered sheep,
and started under the best auspices, with a little flock that was partly
bought and partly taken on shares. I admired the addition to the farm
live stock, but did not get excited. These quiet, plump sheep did not
seem to promise adventure of any kind. The sheep I used to know were
more like Ancient Pistol's "damned and luxurious mountain goat" than
they were like these pampered pets of the show-ring. Of course. I
recorded the arrival of Mary Belle and Clarissa and Strafe, and told
something about their doings, but felt no inclination to take up "the
homely, slighted shepherd's trade." And now see what has happened. Last
week a buyer of fancy sheep came along, gave the flock the once over,
and then bought Mary Belle. When they told me the price he was paying,
my wrath against John Milton boiled over. "Slighted shepherd's trade,"
indeed! That buyer paid sixty-five dollars for Mary Belle! You could
have bought a whole flock of the sheep I used to know for that price.
Why, O why, didn't I go in for sheep when I came back to the land?
_XXV.--Sheep Sculpture_
There are no such sheep as those that take the prizes at the Fall Fairs
and have their pictures printed in the papers. I never believed that
such sheep really existed, "so large and smooth and round," and now I
know that they do not. At least they do not exist as a natural product
of the farm. They are just as much a manufactured article as the little
woolly "baa-baas" in the baby's Noah's Ark. I know this, because I saw a
show sheep manufactured. When Mary Belle was sold it was stipulated by
the buyer that she was to be clipped before being delivered. In my
innocence of the guile of the show-ring I thought that this meant that
she was to be trimmed a little around the edges so that her little
fleece wouldn't look too ragged and ill-kept. When an experienced
showman came to do the clipping, I naturally stuck around to see what
would happen. I knew Mary Belle was a pure-bred sheep of some kind, but
I thought it was an ordinary kind. I had seen sheep and lambs in
pasture fields that looked much like our sheep, so I did not think there
was anything unusual about them. I supposed that the show sheep, with
their wonderful points, must be specially bred and must belong to kinds
that do not run in ordinary mortal pastures. But I know better now. I
saw Mary Belle transformed from an ordinary playful scamp of a lamb to a
primped and perfect darling of the show-ring. I have learned that
sheep-raising and sheep-showing are two entirely different things, and I
have been forced to the conclusion that Touchstone's shepherd didn't
know much about the possibilities of shepherding. He was only a "natural
philosopher," but the modern shepherd is an artist. I suppose it
wouldn't do for me to say "fakir."
* * * * *
When Mary Belle was captured she acted much as an untamed youngster
might when about to have his hair combed and neck washed before being
exhibited to company. She jumped wildly and blatted for her mother, but
it was no use. A strong man held her by the wool around her neck, while
the experienced showman looked her over with a critical eye. He admitted
that she had many good points--but there were a few little
things--still it didn't matter--they wouldn't show when he got done.
After these cryptic remarks he took a couple of carding combs--I am not
sure that that is the right name, but they were the kind of thing I used
to see in my youth in the hands of old pioneer women who carded their
own wool. They look like curry-combs. They are made of wire teeth, set
in leather on a wooden frame. They look and feel something like a cockle
burr. Anyway the showman took these instruments and started at Mary
Belle's fleece. The process was much like combing a particularly snarly
head of hair and was received in the same spirit. The lamb jumped and
called for mother, but as I did not regard the operation any more cruel
than many a hair-combing I had witnessed I did not protest. With these
carding combs the lamb's fleece was all pulled out so that she suddenly
looked twice her usual size. But there was no improvement in her
appearance. In fact she looked shaggier than ever. But presently her
wool was all pulled out on end, and into separate strands, and the real
work of trimming or clipping was ready to begin.
Taking an especially sharp pair of shears, the showman tried their edge
on his thumb in quite the old shepherd manner that I could remember
from earlier days, and looked over the unkempt mass of wool before him
with a critical eye. Though I didn't realise it at the time, his
attitude was much the same as that of Michael Angelo before the mass of
marble from which he hewed his David or of Canova when he stood before
the lump of butter from which he carved the lion. The showman was really
a sheep sculptor, and he was going to snip and clip a prize-winning lamb
out of the mass of wool before him. With a sure hand he mowed a slight
swath of wool along Mary Belle's back. Where there were humps he cut
fairly deep, and where there were depressions he skimmed lightly. The
result was a back-line that was as smooth and straight as if cut to a
ruler. Swiftly but carefully the shears went snipping along her back and
down the sides. What surprised me most was the surface left by this
skilful shearing. It looked like a fine felt. If I didn't know better, I
would say that the lamb had been clipped right to the skin. Yet there
were probably two inches of wool under that deceiving surface in some
places. The sculptor proceeded with his work with artistic sureness of
touch. He had in his mind an ideal lamb, and he proceeded to cut to
that ideal. As he worked there began to emerge just the kind of lamb one
sees in the show ring or pictured in the agricultural papers. The new
lamb was not the harum-scarum Mary Belle in any sense of the word. She
looked twice the size, and her smooth coat, entirely free from snarls
and elf-locks, made her look as fat as a seal. I had to poke at her new
coat in order to convince myself that it was not really a convict-clip,
right close to the skin. The surface seemed to show the movement of the
flesh underneath, and her sides palpitated to every breath, just as if
there was no covering of wool.
As the expert worked she took on a wonderful smoothness and roundness.
Her hams looked like legs of lamb such as had never been. Her back
became broad and plump and her breast was a delight to look at. I
watched admiringly while an entirely new Mary Belle was carved from the
raw material of the old. And the strange thing of it was that she seemed
to like the transformation. Before the work was half done there was no
need of a strong man to hold her. She stood with her chin resting in the
showman's hand while he snipped and clipped her to shape. Finally he
turned her over to the other man to hold and then stood back as a
sculptor might to view his work. He walked around her and looked her
over from every angle--occasionally stepping up to trim some point to a
more desired shape. When she was finally done I half-expected him to go
over her with a piece of sandpaper, but that was not necessary. The
shears had left her smooth enough. When the art work was completed she
looked exactly like the impossible sheep they have at the shows and she
seemed proud of the change. She stood to have her picture taken just
like a belle who was dressed for some grand occasion. Her nature seemed
to undergo a transformation as well as her figure. I could not imagine
her romping and playing king of the castle with Strafe and Clarissa. In
fact, I doubt if her mother would have known her when she was turned
back into the pasture if it were not that sheep know their offspring by
the sense of smell. Everything was changed about her except her
characteristic odour. She looked to be fully as big and much heavier
than her mother, who had recently been subjected to a skin-tight
shearing. As I looked her over I felt that the time had come to add
another stanza to the many parodies of "Mary Had a Little Lamb":
Mary had a little lamb--
They took her to the show,
And though she had a perfect shape
It really wasn't so.
After seeing her in her finished form I have no doubt that Mary Belle
will win prizes in the show ring, but I feel that the prizes should not
go to her, but to the sculptor who fashioned her. She is more of a work
of art than any of the lambs and sheep we see in pastoral paintings.