Part 8

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.

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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.

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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.

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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."

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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.

P.S.--I almost forgot to tell that the showman enlightened me on another trick of the prize-ring. While I stood behind Mary Belle he caught her under the chin in such a way that her back and rump looked broader and fuller than ever. Then as I walked around in front of her he changed his position and with a skilful flick of his toe separated her feet so that she stood with feet well apart. This made her breast look broader and plumper than any breast of lamb could possibly be. All of which made me wonder if the fall fairs influence sheep-breeding as much as they do the art of sheep-showing. I wonder if all the other animals of the show-ring are handled in the same expert way.