A sheep is scudding and bouncing over a common, in the morning, with the dew glistening on her fleece. She is full of enjoyment, and knows no care in life. In the evening of the same day, she is slowly moving along a muddy lane, among a large flock; fatigued, her wool matted with dust and slush, her mouth parched with thirst, and one ear torn to a red rag by the dog. He was sent to do it by the shepherd, because she had lagged a little behind, to gaze through a gap in the hedge at a duck-pond in the field. She has been in a constant state of fright, confusion, and apprehension, ever since. At every shout of the shepherd’s voice, or that of his boy, and at every bark of the dog, or sound of the rapid pattering of his feet as he rushes by, she has expected to be again seized, and perhaps torn to pieces. As for the passage of the dog over her back, in one of his rushes along the backs of the flock, as they huddle densely together near some crooked corner or cross-way—in utter confusion as to what they are wanted to do—what they themselves want to do—what is best to do—or what in the world is about to be done—no word of man, or bleat of sheep, can convey any adequate impression of the fright it causes her. On one of these occasions, when going through a narrow turnpike, the dog is sent over their backs to worry the leaders who are going the wrong way, and in her spring forward to escape the touch of his devilish foot, she lacerated her side against a nail in the gatepost, making a long wound.