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.”