. . . and to transfer it to his pouch. John must needs come up to smell and even to lick a little; in plain truth, he could neither eat the tobacco, nor leave it alone. “Na, na, John mon, I’ll ha’ naething for ye; ye winna get any more; ye’re through wi’ ut all, indeed, mon. Not a bit more, John, ma laddie.”
“You know,” he said, turning to me, “sheep are not like goats. Goats do na eat much grass, they like strong hairbs, and can’t refuse tobacco; they will follow you for miles for a bit of ut.”
On the day when the photograph was taken, the shepherd accosted a big animal thus, “Well, Sam, my boy, where’s Johnny?” He took a crust of bread from his pocket, and then, away from the back of the pen, twenty yards distant, a small sheep was seen bounding forward and making short leaps after the manner of a goat. It was something new in my experience; I never saw anything like it. To Tweed, the dog, he quietly remarked, “Get ahint, sit down,” and the dog straightway sat down and posed for his portrait like a human being. Sam and Johnny seemed to understand everything that was said to them.
On Sunday afternoons, when the shepherd gets almost his only chance of recreation, and reads a book within his hut, the flocks in the enclosure are visited by nursemaids and children in constant succession. Grown-up children come too, and steadfastly watch the sheep with a curiosity which clearly shows that their country studies in that respect have been of a listless kind.