THE LAMB THAT COULDN’T KEEP UP
When the strip of morning shadow was gone, they lifted the lamb tenderly and carried it to the strip of afternoon shadow on the other side of the house; and still it took no notice of the water or the milk, or of all the children’s care, nor seemed to hear that they were planning a happy life for it, if only it would get well.
When twilight came, and still it had not moved, the children held anxious consultation on the subject of their neighbors, the coyotes; but their father assured them there would be no danger, so near to the house; and it seemed a pity to disturb the poor lamb.
When the cool night wind began to blow down the cañon again, and the children were asleep, the lamb made its last effort. It is the instinct of all dumb creatures to keep upon their feet as long as they can stand; for when they have fallen the herd has no compassion,—or it may be that its comrades press around the sufferer out of curiosity or mistaken sympathy, and so trample it out of existence without meaning the least harm. The little nursling of the range obeyed this instinct in its last moments,—struggled to its feet and fell, a few steps farther on; and the lamb that couldn’t keep up was at rest.
No more toiling over hills and mountains and across hot valleys, packed in the midst of the band, breathing the dust, stunned with the noise, always hungry, almost always athirst, baked by the sun, chilled by the snow, driven by the wind,—drifting on, from mountain to river, from river to plain.
This one, out of eight thousand, could rest at last, on cool grass, with the peace and the silence and the room of a summer night around it.
The band slept upon the hills that night; the next morning they crossed the gulch above the camp, and drank up by the way all the water of the little stream. Not another drop was seen for days. At length it gathered strength enough to trickle down again, but it was necessary to dip it up and let it stand in casks to settle before it was fit for use; and meanwhile the Chinamen carriers did double duty.
Those eastern hills in spring had been covered with wild flowers,—the moss pink, lupines both white and blue, wild phlox, the small yellow crocus, beds of tiny sweet-scented wild pansies, the camas flower, and a tall-stemmed, pale lilac lily,—the queen of the hill garden. But when spring came again, the old pathways were like an ash heap. The beautiful hill garden was a desert.
When these great sheep bands pass over the country, from range to range, from territory to territory, they devour not only the vegetation of one year, but the seeds, the roots, and, with these, the promise of the next.
It is the migration of the Hungry and the Thirsty; and a cry goes out against them, like the cry of Moab when the children of Israel camped within its borders:—
“Surely this multitude will lick up all that is round about us.”
