My father followed on. The old sheep waited until he had
got nearly up to her again, when she ran on, and went through the same
operation as before. In this way she led my father to the farthest end
of the pasture, where lay her lamb, bleeding and helpless. The little
thing had bled so much that it could not raise its head, or help itself
in the least. My father took the lamb, stanched the bleeding wound, took
it in his arms and carried it home--the old sheep, in the mean time,
following, and expressing her joy and gratitude, not by words, it is
true, but by looks and actions more truthful, and which were not to be
mistaken. Suffice it to say, that with proper care and nursing, the lamb
was saved, and restored to health and strength, to the great
satisfaction of both parties concerned."
I have a mind to tell you one of my own youthful adventures, in which a
poor wight of a sheep had a prominent share. The adventure proved of
immense service to me, as you will see in the sequel. Perhaps the story
of it will be valuable to you, in the same manner.
I shall never forget the first time I sallied out into the woods to try
my hand at hunting. Rover, the old family dog, went with me, and he was
about as green in the matter of securing game as myself. We were pretty
well matched, I think. I played the part of Hudibras, as nearly as I can
recollect, and Rover was a second Ralph.
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