212 The Mountain Sheep 



looked out of the window more serenely than 

 this ewe surveyed her neighborhood. The two 

 had now arrived at what, in their opinion, was a 

 suitable place for stopping. "Their" opinion is not 

 correct; it was, I soon unmistakably made out, 

 the mamma who — far more than the average 

 American mother as American mothers go now 

 — decided what was good and proper for her 

 child. This lamb was being brought up as strictly 

 as if it were English. They had just completed a 

 somewhat long and unrelieved ascent, — so I had, 

 at any rate, previously found it. This upper 

 region of the mountain rose above the tree belt 

 in three well-marked terraces which were rimmed 

 by walls of rock extremely symmetrical. Each 

 terrace made a platform fairly level and fairly 

 wide, upon which one was glad to linger for a 

 while before ascending the slant to the next 

 terrace wall. I was seated at the edge of the top 

 terrace, a floor of stones and grass and very thick 

 little spruce and juniper bushes ; the mamma had 

 just attained the terrace next below me, and up 

 the wall after her had climbed and scrambled 

 the little lamb with (I was diverted to notice) 

 almost as much difficulty as I had found at that 

 spot myself. The mamma knew a good deal 



