Therefore a clear July morning saw the vast herd winding its way up the steep incline of the mountainside. Sandy went on ahead, guiding the flock to the best pasturage and the freshest water-holes. The lambs trotted at their mother's sides or frisked after them with the playfulness of kittens. When a plentiful water supply and rich grass was found Sandy often delayed the upward march a week or more, that the flock might make the most of the lush herbage. When feed was meager there were days of scrambling up rocky stretches, and nights of patrolling the fold. Then more days of climbing would follow. Sometimes a scarcity of water forced them to press on against their will. They had now reached a high elevation, but the warmth of the July weather rendered the coolness welcome. The sheep gladly sought out the forest shade or, when they were above the timber-line, rested in the shadow of the high rocks. This rough land seemed to be the favorite place for their sports, and Donald and his father were never tired watching them. A single sheep would mount a boulder, from which vantage ground he would stand looking down at the herd. In a moment several of the flock would rush forward, butt him from the rock, and one of them would take his place, only to be driven down and succeeded by the next victor. The sheep often played this for a long time. "It is a good game, too," declared Sandy, "for to rush up the side of a high rock like that and not slip back makes them sure-footed." Another game the flock sometimes played was Follow the Leader, one old ewe marching ahead, followed by a line of sheep that went wherever she led them. "They play it almost as well as we did at school," said Donald, much amused. "That is a useful game too," went on Sandy. "By playing it the young lambs learn to follow the others, and do what they do. That is one way they get training to keep in the herd and obey the mind of the leader. It is really more of a lesson than a game. I suspect, though, they are like us--so long as they think it is a game they like to play it. Perhaps, now, if we were to hint to them it was a lesson they might never play it again." Donald chuckled. There were many times when it seemed to him that Sandy must be a boy of fourteen instead of a man of forty; yet the next moment the Scotchman would address him with the gravity of a grandfather, and immediately Donald felt very young indeed. A strange mixture of youth and wisdom was Sandy McCulloch!