. . . course, were sufficient time allowed, it could be painfully performed on foot. In the early years of the experiment the animals were brought to St. Katharine’s Wharf by steamboat.
This slight question was merely introductory to further conversation, because other topics soon presented themselves. Think of the revolution in habit and experience when a shepherd is suddenly transferred from a remote sheep-run in the Highlands to the bustle of a great city, with its hurried modes of life and thought. But the shepherd, fortified by the calm stoicism which is the gift of years of solitude, stands the change well.
My friend is a short, firmly knit man, much weather-beaten, yet of fresh, even ruddy complexion. He has passed through six decades, and his sandy hair is slightly grizzled, but, like most shepherds, he looks ten years younger than he really is. Always shrewd and good humoured, with sober views of the world and its ways, he possesses the saving grace of sanity, so that it is a genuine treat to share his companionship. At close quarters, his garb seems unusual—an old mackintosh with an inverness cape being prominent—but when a steady persistent downpour commences, the wisdom of such a choice is manifest. At home, in the Highlands of far Aberdeen, where the rainfall is heavy, he has learned how to protect himself, and needs no advice on that score. He carries neither crook nor staff, only a short stick, and this is but one of several differences between his habits and those of Southern shepherds.