It was pleasant on bright mornings to stroll leisurely out on to the farm in my dressing-gown, with a cigar in my mouth, and watch those innocent little lambs as they danced gayly o'er the hillside. Watching their saucy capers reminded me of caper sauce, and it occurred to me I should have some very fine eating when they grew up to be "muttons." My gentle shepherd, Mr. Eli Perkins, said, "We must have some shepherd dogs." I had no very precise idea as to what shepherd dogs were, but I assumed a rather profound look, and said: "We must, Eli. I spoke to you about this some time ago!" I wrote to my old friend, Mr. Dexter H. Follett, of Boston, for two shepherd dogs. Mr. F. is not an honest old farmer himself, but I thought he knew about shepherd dogs. He kindly forsook far more important business to accommodate, and the dogs came forthwith. They were splendid creatures--snuff-colored, hazel-eyed, long-tailed, and shapely-jawed. We led them proudly to the fields. "Turn them in, Eli," I said. Eli turned them in. They went in at once, and killed twenty of my best lambs in about four minutes and a half. My friend had made a trifling mistake in the breed of these dogs. These dogs were not partial to sheep. Eli Perkins was astonished, and observed: "Waal! DID you ever?" I certainly never had. There were pools of blood on the greensward, and fragments of wool and raw lamb chops lay round in confused heaps. The dogs would have been sent to Boston that night, had they not suddenly died that afternoon of a throat-distemper. It wasn't a swelling of the throat. It wasn't diptheria. It was a violent opening of the throat, extending from ear to ear. Thus closed their life-stories. Thus ended their interesting tails. I failed as a raiser of lambs. As a sheepist, I was not a success. Last summer Mr. Perkins, said, "I think we'd better cut some grass this season, sir." We cut some grass. To me the new-mown hay is very sweet and nice. The brilliant George Arnold sings about it, in beautiful verse, down in Jersey every summer; so does the brilliant Aldrich, at Portsmouth, N.H. And yet I doubt if either of these men knows the price of a ton of hay to-day. But new-mown hay is a really fine thing. It is good for man and beast. We hired four honest farmers to assist us, and I led them gayly to the meadows. I was going to mow, myself. I saw the sturdy peasants go round once ere I dipped my flashing scythe into the tall green grass. "Are you ready?" said E. Perkins. "I am here!" "Then follow us." I followed them.