"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 pa.s.sed 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 circ.u.mstances, bought the sheep, and left the friends in peaceable possession of the paddock and its adjoining shelter."

CHAPTER VI.

THE SHEEP-FARM.

About this time, Minnie went a short journey with her parents, and was greatly delighted when, one afternoon, they drove through a long, winding lane to a farmhouse, where her friend, Mr. Sullivan, was residing.

"Will you please let me see the lambs?" she asked the kind old lady, Mr.

Sullivan's mother, who kept house for him at this time.

"My little daughter has been scarcely able to contain her joy,"

explained Mr. Lee, "since I told her, a few miles back, that we were going to visit your son."

The good woman smiled kindly upon the child, and then went to the back door, where she took down a long horn, and blew upon it with all her might.

"Joseph will hear that," she said, laughing, as she saw Minnie's large eyes fixed so eagerly on her face, "and he will come up presently from the field. When he has taken care of your father's horses, you can go back with him if you please."

"And may I take the little lambs in my arms? I love lambs dearly."

"They are rather shy of strangers, dear, but you can try. If the ewes are willing, I am."

Minnie then ran to the door, and soon announced, in a glad voice, that Mr. Sullivan was in sight.

He gave them a cheering welcome, and, after kissing Minnie, told her she might run all over the farm, just where she pleased.

"There is a calf in the barn," he said, laughing, "and plenty of little pigs in the sty."

"But I like lambs better than pigs, sir."

"Well, there are some over a hundred of them, and you shall be introduced to their acquaintance as soon as I have given the horses some oats."

Mrs. Lee was readily induced to join the party, although somewhat tired with her long drive. The sheep, of which there were one hundred and fifty, were eating gra.s.s on the side of a hill, but, at the shepherd's call, came running to meet him, bleating for their lambs to follow. He threw out some salt, with which his huge pockets were filled; and while Minnie gazed with sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks upon the unusual scene, asked Mr. Lee what he thought of their appearance.

"I never saw a finer flock," was the eager reply. "They do credit to their keeping."

A scream of delight from Minnie caused her father to turn quickly, in time to see a beautiful white lamb crowding its little nose through the fence, into the child's hand.

"Here, Minnie," said the shepherd, giving her an ear of corn; "hold this up, and call, 'Luke,' and you'll soon have the mother to the lamb eating from the cob." He laughed merrily, as he added, "My boy has given them all Bible names; so we have Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. He hesitated a little about Acts, but finally thought he'd better go straight through. So here comes Acts, with her twin lambs, as fine a pair as there is in the flock."

Mr. and Mrs. Lee laughed heartily, and presently Minnie asked, "What is the name of that great one, with horns?"

"O! That's Jeroboam. He's a cruel fellow, I'm sorry to say. I wouldn't advise you to have much to do with such a fellow as he is."

"He looks like a picture in our Bible of a ram going to sacrifice," said the child, gravely. "I wish he were good, though."

"Here comes a lamb now," said Mr. Sullivan, "that I took the liberty to name for you. To my fancy, she's the prettiest one of the flock. Minnie, Minnie, come and get your corn."

"Can lambs eat corn, sir?"

"No; but their mothers can, and they get the good of it."

Minnie's mother came and ate the corn greedily from his hand, while the lamb danced about, first on one side and then on the other, much to the amus.e.m.e.nt of the child.

"Do they stay out in the field all night, sir?"

"O, no! we always shelter them. At this season, we allow them to feed till late; the sun being so hot in the middle of the day, they all crowd under the shade of the hill."

"But what do they do when it rains?"

"A warm shower doesn't hurt the lambs; but we had some cold north-east storms earlier in the season, when we were obliged to drive them all in, as we couldn't separate the lambs from their mothers. One day, we tried to keep the ewes out to feed, but they bleated so much for their little ones 'twas no use; they wouldn't eat."

"I'm glad of that," cried Minnie, eagerly. "I'm glad your sheep love their children. In Ireland, sometimes they won't own them."

"We had a great deal of trouble with the merinos," Mr. Sullivan went on, directing his remark to Mr. Lee. "Not one in ten cared any thing about her lamb. If she had milk enough, I could tie her; but it often made my heart ache to hear the poor wee things crying for a mother's care. I was almost glad when they died off, as they generally did. I find it's the universal opinion now that merinos make poor nurses."