. . . such as those of the forelock, where this is present, are rolled up with the snowy fleece, which now looks as if a cirrus cloud had suddenly become compacted together and fallen to the ground. Should the sheep by a rare mischance receive a slight cut with the shears, the cry of “Tar, boy!” would be quickly responded to by the lad who has charge of the tar pot.
One of the workers deftly ties up the fleece, preferably with a little natural twine, loosely spun from the wool itself. A few dabs of tar from the ever-ready pot, or some rapidly made streaks of ruddle (raddle) now decorate the startled sheep with initials, strokes, or cryptic signs. Soon she trots away to join her companions, who scarcely recognise the new-comer in the absence of her coat.
Ignorant persons may look upon the shepherd as an unskilled labourer, a slow, stolid man of few parts and dull wits. Never was error less justified. Show me the artisan whose quickness of eye and dexterity of execution can exceed the skill of this man, who clips a shearling to a nail’s breadth and yet draws not the least drop of blood. My Highland shepherd has these ordinary gifts in full measure, and an abundant stock of dry humour besides.
“They’ll be taking you up for not having a muzzle on your dog,” a young lady remarked. “Am not afraid, and don’t care, so long as they’ll set me down at ma hut at night.”