Spring has a wonderful way of bringing out hidden traits of character.
Through my window I look out upon a tiny farm. It is kept by a tall,
hard-looking, rough-bearded fellow, whom I have watched striding about his
fields all winter, with but little sympathy. Yet it would seem I have been
doing him wrong. For this morning, as he passed along the outside of the
railing wherein his two sheep were grazing, suddenly they came bounding
towards him with every manifestation of delight, literally recalling the
lambkins which Wordsworth saw bound 'as to the tabor's sound.' They
followed as far as the railing permitted, pushing their noses through at
him; nay, when at last he moved out of reach, they were evidently so much
in love that they leaped the fence and made after him. And he, instead of
turning brutally on them, as I had expected, smiled and played with them
awhile. Indeed, he had some difficulty in disengaging himself from their
persistent affection. So, evidently, they knew him better than I.