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:

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?