with those human hands whose lightest touch she had so flouted,
ministering tenderly to her great needs. The stockman had become so
fond of the wayward beauty, in spite of her ingratitude, that the
only solace he could find for his regret at her early death, lay in
digging a deep grave for her, and carving the emblem of her pretty
name on the rude stake which still marks the spot.

No account of station pets would be complete without a brief
allusion to my numerous and unsuccessful attempts to rear merino
lambs in the house. It never was of any use advising me to leave
the poor little creatures out on the bleak hill-side, if, in the
course of my rambles after ferns or creepers, I came upon a dead ewe
with her half-starved baby running round and round her. How could I
turn my back on the little orphan, who, instead of bounding off up
the steep hill, used to run confidingly up to me, and poke its black
muzzle into my hand, as if it would say, "Here is a friend at last"?
And then merino lambs are so much prettier than any I have seen in
England. Their snow-white wool is as tightly screwed up in small
curls as any Astracan fleece, and from being of so much more active
a race, they are smaller and more compact than English lambs, and
not so awkward and leggy. A merino lamb of a couple of hours old is
far better fitted to take care of itself up a mountain than a
civilized and helpless lamb of a month old, besides these latter
being so weak about the knees always. I only mention this, not out
of any desire to "blow" about our sheep, but because I want to
account for my tender-heartedness on the subject of desolate
orphans. The ewes scarcely ever died of disease, unless by a rare
chance it happened to be a very old lady whose constitution gave way
at last before a severe winter. We oftenest found that the dead
mother was a fine fat young ewe; who had slipped up on a hill-side