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 The shouting and barking drew closer; Rawlins saw the flock break over a hill close by, and come flowing like a dusty avalanche into the bowl below the wagon. This little valley, he noted, was trampled and hoofcut, evidently the bedding-ground of the flock while it grazed in that vicinity. The sheep poured into it like a stream of milky coffee into a grimy cup, as if they would fill it to the brim.

The flock had been shorn, the black brand of the owner, stamped on the animals' backs, was plainly seen, although dust was reclaiming the new coats with the sheepland grey. Knobby-legged lambs, in great numbers, were as white as daisies among the fathers and mothers of the flock. They tugged along wearily beside their dams, marvelously preserved in this billow of sheep that came rolling down to the bedding-ground.

There was a sound of tremulous complaint going up from the sheep, heartless, weary, forlorn, as if hope were departing from them with the day. The herder stood on the hilltop, watching the sheep down to the bedding-ground, shouting and scolding, his dogs marshaling them, hastening to bring in the stragglers which spread away from the main body and stopped now and then to nibble a last thin blade of grass.

Once in the little valley the clamor of the dependent creatures ceased. They became as suddenly quiet as a baby hushed to sleep in its mother's arms. The two dogs stood on the flanks of the flock, waiting as if they did not trust such irresponsible things to settle down and behave at once.

The gloom of night was on the hills, the flock a