“You are an Anglo-Saxon,” the Old Colonel had said, and that had meant that for as many years as could be counted in a day his people had been tillers of the soil. The Anglo-Saxon was never one to gather into cities. He knew the meadows, the forests, the feel of the earth through the handles of his plow, the sheep feeding on the hillside. When his land became too heavy with people—so that he could no longer see the sun breaking forth in glory to the east because of city spires that rose between—he was likely to set sail for the far places of the earth, still to watch the sheep as they fed at the edge of the forest. His was a people of the soil: before they learned to plow, their flocks fed in the downs. The love of the soil had been bred into his race, warp and woof, and the little generations of exile in cities could not take his heritage away from him.
The flock fed for about two hours, then bedded down to chew their cud. Hugh was perplexed at first. He was somewhat fearful that a sudden illness had come upon the entire flock. The dog, however, seemed to understand. He came back to his master’s side and the two of them had a little chat as the morning advanced. After a short rest the sheep got up and started to feed again.
There was really not much work for Hugh to do. Occasionally he would see a small band of the sheep browsing off in a different direction from the course of the main flock, but at such times the dog knew the exact course of action. He would circle around the straying animals, cut off their escape, and they were always glad to head back into the main flock. It became increasingly evident, however, how difficult it was to keep track of the entire band. Only the gregarious instinct of the animals maintained their formation at all: in the dense woods he could see only a small part of the flock at one time. He had no way of knowing if various detachments had not already wandered away from the main band. Of course he didn’t know the methods by which most herders guard against this danger: by an approximate count achieved by keeping track of the black sheep, or markers. It seemed to him also that the wolves and other predatory animals had every opportunity in the world to lurk about the flanks of the flock and steal the lambs. The truth was that losses were sustained in this manner every day, and his presence alone prevented a wholesale slaughter.
About ten he decided it was time to turn the sheep. They had been moving since before dawn: he wanted to give them time in plenty to get back to the camp before night. He didn’t know how many rests they would wish to take in the afternoon.
He made a big circle about the flock, turning back at its head. He supposed that he could make the animals wheel straight about in a to-the-rear march, permitting those at the rear of the main band to get first chance at the feed on the way home. The way of sheep, however, is different. They executed what was more nearly a squads right, keeping the same leaders. The great advantage of the scheme lay in the fact that circling, they made the return trip on fresh feeding grounds.
He felt increasingly thankful for the aid of his dog. He seemed to interpret Hugh’s every wish. And when at the head of the main band, the man got his first glimpse of Spot.
X
No observer could make any mistake about Spot’s position in the flock. Through all the maneuvers of the great band he kept the foremost place; and the other sheep followed him without question. The young and inexperienced herdsman thought at first that he was the old “bellwether” of the flock.
But in a very few moments he had to reconstruct some of his ideas. In the first place Spot was not old, and in the second he was obviously not a wether. He was not wrinkled and withered like the old ewes: sheep that had yielded their wool for many seasons. To Hugh’s eyes he looked like a yearling ram; and rather amazing horns had begun to curve from his bold, rugged head.
Hugh was considerably puzzled. He was not a sheepman, but for the simple reason that there were no other yearling rams in the flock he believed that most of the previous season’s crop of male lambs had been sold as wethers to the markets. The mature lambs were obviously kept apart until the breeding season in late fall or winter. Some exception had thus been made in the case of Spot. And Hugh found himself watching the sturdy sheep with a singular interest.
In the first place the animal lacked the uniform color of the other sheep. His basic color was neither white nor black, but a decided dark brown with white at the backs of the legs and the rump. This variation of color immediately won him his name. He was the only sheep in the flock with horns, and in some vague way the man realized that the outline of his figure was entirely different from that of the ewes.
Although he was massively and boldly built, there was an actual grace about his motions not to be seen in the ewes. His form looked lean and hard, for all its massive development, and he stood several good inches above the tallest
