Sufferings of Sheep. 21 
ebbs out of them for the lack of food. Green crops 
and roots fail, the aftermath in the meadows beneath 
will not grow, week after week ‘keep’ becomes scarcer 
and more expensive, and there is, in fact, a famine. 
Of all animals a starved sheep is the most wretched 
to contemplate, not only because of the angularity of 
outline, and the cavernous depressions where fat and 
flesh should be, but because the associations of many 
generations have given the sheep a peculiar claim 
upon humanity. They hang entirely on human help. 
They watch for the shepherd as though he were their 
father ; and when he comes he can do no good, so 
that there is no more painful spectacle than a fold 
during a drought upon the hills. 
Once upon a time, passing on foot for a distance 
of some twenty-five miles across these hills and 
grassy uplands, I could not help comparing the scene 
to what travellers tell us of desert lands and foreign 
famines. The whole of that long summer’s day, as I 
hastened southwards, eager for the beach and the 
scent of the sea, I passed flocks of dying sheep: in 
the hollows by the way their skeletons were here and 
there to be seen, the gaunt ribs protruding upwards 
in the horrible manner that the ribs of dead creatures 
do. Crowds of flies buzzed in the air. Upon the 
hurdles perched the crow, bold with over-feasting, 
and hardly turning to look at me, waiting there till 
the next lamb should fall and the ‘spirit of the beast 
go downwards. Happy England, that experiences 
