AFFECTION FOR ITS YOUNG.
The gentleman began:--
"The marked characteristic of the sheep is that of natural affection, of
which it possesses a great share. At the present time, there is in
Regent's Park a poor sheep, with very bad foot rot. Crawling along the
pasture on its knees, it with difficulty contrives to procure for itself
subsistence; and the pain which it suffers when compelled to get on its
feet is evidently very great. At a little distance from the sufferer was
another sheep, which, after close observation, I found was always the
same. As I pursued my regular morning walk through the Park, I commonly
sought out the friends, and, after two or three days, they seemed to be
aware that no harm was intended them, and they suffered me to come near
enough to observe their signals, and fully to satisfy myself that it was
always the same faithful adherent by whom the cripple was solaced and
watched.
"When a sheep becomes blind, it is rarely abandoned to itself in this
hapless and helpless state. Some one of the flock attaches himself to
it, and by bleating calls it back from the precipice, and the lake, and
the pool, and every kind of danger to which it is exposed."
"Isn't that good of them?" cried Minnie, eagerly. "I like those sheep."
"There was once a gentleman living in Inverness," Mr. Lee went on, "who
was passing through a lonely and unfrequented district, when he observed
a sheep bleating most piteously, and hurrying along the road to meet
him; on his approaching nearer, the animal redoubled its cries, and
looking earnestly in his face, seemed to implore some favor or
assistance.
"Touched with a sight so unusual, he alighted, and leaving his gig, he
followed the sheep in the direction whence it had come. There, in a
solitary place, the ewe stopped, and the traveller found a lamb,
completely wedged in between two large stones, almost exhausted, but
still continuing to struggle very feebly.
"The kind gentleman instantly extricated the little sufferer, and placed
it safely on the neighboring greensward, while the delighted mother
poured out her thanks in a long-continued and grateful, if not a
musical, strain.
"An interesting provision of nature with regard to these animals is,
that the more inhospitable the land on which they feed, the greater
will be their kindness and affection to their young.
"'I once herded,' says the Ettrick Shepherd, 'two years on a wild and
bare farm, called Willenslee, on the border of Mid Lothian; and of all
the sheep I ever saw, these were the kindest and most affectionate to
their lambs. I was often deeply affected at scenes which I witnessed. We
had one very hard winter, so that our sheep grew lean in the spring,
and disease came among them, and carried off a number. Often have I seen
these poor victims, when fallen to rise no more, even when unable to
lift their heads from the ground, holding up the leg to invite the
starving lamb to the miserable pittance that the udder still could
supply. I had never seen aught more painfully affecting.
"'It is well known that it is a custom with shepherds, when a lamb dies,
if the mother have a sufficiency of milk, to bring her from the hill,
and put another lamb to her. This is done by putting the skin of the
dead lamb upon the living one; the ewe immediately acknowledges the
relationship, and after the skin has warmed on it, so as to give it
something of the smell of her own lamb, and when it has suckled her two
or three times, she accepts it, and nourishes it as her own ever after.
Whether it is from joy at this apparent reanimation of her young one, or
because a little doubt remains in her mind, which she would fain dispel,
I can not decide; but, for a number of days, she shows far more
fondness, by bleating and caressing, over this one, than she formerly
did over the one that was really her own.
"'While at Willenslee, I never needed to drive home a sheep by force,
with dogs, or in any other way than the following: I found every ewe, of
course, hanging her head over her dead lamb; and having a piece of twine
with me for the purpose, I tied that to the lamb's neck or foot, and,
trailing it along, the ewe followed me into any house, or fold, or
wherever I chose to lead her. Any of them would have followed me in
that way for miles, with her nose close on the lamb, which she never
quitted for a moment, except to chase my dog, which she would not suffer
to walk near me.
"'Out of curiosity, I often led them in to the side of the kitchen fire,
by this means into the midst of servants and dogs; but the more that
dangers multiplied around the ewe, the closer she clung to her dead
offspring, and thought of nothing whatever but protecting it. One of
the two years while I remained on this farm, a severe blast of snow came
on by night, about the latter end of April, which destroyed several
scores of our lambs; and as we had not enough of twins and odd lambs for
the mothers that had lost theirs, of course we selected the best ewes,
and put lambs to them. I found one fine ewe standing over a dead lamb
in the head of the Hope, and asked my master to put a lamb to her, but
he did not. I watched her, and faithfully did she stand to her charge;
so faithfully, that I think the like was never equalled by any of the
woolly race. I visited her morning and evening, and for the first eight
days never found her above two or three yards from the lamb; and always,
as I went my rounds, she eyed me long ere I came near her, and kept
trampling with her feet, and whistling through her nose, to frighten
away the dog. He got a regular chase, twice a day, as I passed by.
"'The weather grew fine and warm, and the dead lamb soon decayed; but
still this affectionate and desolate creature kept hanging over the poor
remains, with an attachment that seemed to be nourished by
hopelessness. It often drew tears from my eyes, to see her hanging with
such fondness over a few bones, mixed with a small portion of wool.
"'For the first fortnight, she never quitted the spot, and for another
week she visited it every morning and evening, uttering a few kindly and
heart-piercing bleats each time, till at length every remnant of her
offspring vanished, mixing with the soil, or wafted away by the winds
of heaven.'"
"There, Minnie, I think you have heard enough for to-night," said Mr.
Lee, gayly, as he heard his little daughter sigh repeatedly.
"O, father, I can't help being so sorry for the poor sheep!"
"You had better read her something more cheerful, or she'll be thinking
of that all night," responded Mrs. Lee, laughing at the child's
dolorous tone.
"Yes, father, please read one more."
"Well, then, here is something that will please you."
"A drover, being on his way to Smithfield market with a flock of sheep,
one of them became so sore-footed and lame that it could travel no
farther. The man, wishing to get on, took up the distressed animal, and
dropped it over the paling of an enclosure belonging to Mr. O'Kelly, and
where the celebrated race-horse Dungannon was then grazing, and pursued
his journey, intending to call for the sheep on his return, believing,
after a little rest, it would quickly recover. This was the case; but,
in the mean time, a strong attachment grew up between the two
inhabitants of the paddock. The horse would playfully nibble the neck
of the sheep, and, without hurting it, would lift it into the manger of
a neighboring shed belonging to the field, as much as to say, 'Though
you are not able to reach it, I will help you to the banquet.' Besides
this, the horse would, on all occasions, protect his new friend, and
would suffer no one to interfere with him.
"When the drover returned, the two friends had become so attached, that
it seemed cruel to part them; and Mrs. O'Kelly, having learned the
circumstances, bought the sheep, and left the friends in peaceable
possession of the paddock and its adjoining shelter."