WILD WOOL 



yearling lamb. After parting their beautiful 

 wool on the side and many places along the 

 back, shoulders, and hips, and examining it 

 closely with my lens, I shouted: "Well done 

 for wildness! Wild wool is finer than tame!" 



My companions stooped down and examined 

 the fleeces for themselves, pulling out tufts 

 and ringlets, spinning them between their 

 fingers, and measuring the length of the staple, 

 each in turn paying tribute to wildness. It 

 was finer, and no mistake; finer than Spanish 

 Merino. Wild wool is finer than tame. 



"Here," said I, "is an argument for fine 

 wildness that needs no explanation. Not that 

 such arguments are by any means rare, for all 

 wildness is finer than tameness, but because 

 fine wool is appreciable by everybody alike — 

 from the most speculative president of na- 

 tional wool-growers' associations all the way 

 down to the gude-wife spinning by her ingle- 

 side." 



Nature is a good mother, and sees well to 

 the clothing of her many bairns — birds with 

 smoothly imbricated feathers, beetles with 

 shining jackets, and bears with shaggy furs. 

 In the tropical south, where the sun warms 

 like a fire, they are allowed to go thinly clad; 

 but in the snowy northland she takes care to 

 clothe warmly. The squirrel has socks and 



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