My First Summer 



dogs and shepherds the sheep scatter to all 

 points of the compass and vanish in dust. I 

 fear some are lost, for one of the sixteen 

 black ones is missing. 



June 17. Counted the wool bundles 

 this morning as they bounced through the 

 narrow corral gate. About three hundred 

 are missing, and as the shepherd could not 

 go to seek them, I had to go. I tied a crust 

 of bread to my belt, and with Carlo set out 

 for the upper slopes of the Pilot Peak Ridge, 

 and had a good day, notwithstanding the 

 care of seeking the silly runaways. I went 

 out for wool, and did not come back shorn. 

 A peculiar light circled around the horizon, 

 white and thin like that often seen over the 

 auroral corona, blending into the blue of the 

 upper sky. The only clouds were a few 

 faint flossy pencilings like combed silk. I 

 pushed direct to the boundary of the usual 

 range of the flock, and around it until I 

 found the outgoing trail of the wanderers. 

 It led far up the ridge into an open place 

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