and could not recover herself, but had died of exhaustion and
fatigue from her violent efforts to kick herself up again. If we
chanced to be in time to rescue her by the simple process of setting
her on her legs again, it would be all right, but sometimes the poor
creature had been cold and stiff for hours before we found her, and
her lamb had bleated itself hoarse and hungry, and was as tame as a
pet dog. Now _who_ could turn away from a little helpless thing
like that, who positively leaped into your arms and cuddled itself
up in delight, sucking vigorously away at your glove, or anything
handy? Not I, for one,--though I might as well have left it alone,
so far as its ultimate fate was concerned; but I always hoped for
better luck next time, and carried it off in my arms.

The first thing to be do be on arrival at home, was to give the
starving little creature a good meal out of a tea-pot, and the next,
to put it to sleep in a box of hay in a warm corner of the kitchen.
What always seemed to me so extraordinary, was that the lambs, one
and all, preserved the most cheerful demeanour, ate and drank and
slept well,--and yet died within a month. Some lingered until quite
four weeks had passed, others succumbed to my treatment in a week.
I varied their food, mixing oatmeal with the milk; some I fed often,
others seldom; to some I gave sugar in the milk, others had new
milk. There was abundance of grass just outside the house for them
to eat, if they could. Some did mumble feebly at it, I remember,
but the mortality continued uninterrupted. It must have been very
ridiculous to a visitor, to see my dear little snowy pets going down
on their front knees before me, and wagging their long tails
furiously the moment the tea-pot was brought out. They were far too
sensible to do this if my hands were empty. Gentle, affectionate
little creatures, they used to be wonderfully well-behaved, though