Precisely the same thing happened with my pedigree Shropshire sheep; environment altered their character and produced a different type—­bone, wool, and size all increased.  The wool was coarser and darker in colour; they were good, useful, hardy stock, but could not compete in quality with the pedigree sheep bred in their own county.  No pedigree Shropshire breeder will, as a rule, buy rams bred outside his own district, for fear of introducing coarseness and an alteration of the established exhibition type.

An amusing incident happened at Mr. Graham’s sale at Yardley near Birmingham, at which I was present.  Mr. Graham had a reputation as a Shropshire sheep-breeder; though not actually farming in the county, his land was not unsuitable, and, on one occasion, I believe, he won the first prize for a shearling ram at the show of the Royal Agricultural Society of England.

I noticed a very non-agricultural individual in a top hat, who tried to get into conversation with me and who succeeded in getting a luncheon ticket gratis.  These sale luncheons were at the time very bountiful spreads, including plenty of champagne, and the man under my observation made a very hearty meal.  Short speeches and toasts always follow, but an adjournment is quickly made to the sale tent, before the evaporation of the effects of the hospitality.  It is the custom for a glove to be passed round to collect subscriptions for the shepherd, during the progress of the sale, and on this occasion two young fellows undertook the duty of collectors.  The man, who had done himself so well at Mr. Graham’s expense, was evidently not buying or even making bids, and to each of the collectors he said he had already contributed to the other.  Being suspicious they compared notes, and found that he had made the same excuse to both.  Such meanness after the hospitality he had received was intolerable; shouting, “He’s a Welsher,” they lifted him bodily, protesting and struggling, rushed him out of the tent into a neighbouring field, and cast him into a dirty pond covered with green and slimy duckweed!  A miserable object he scrambled out, for the pond was shallow, and took his dishevelled and bedraggled presence away as fast as he could limp along, amid the laughter and jeers of the crowd.

The Hampshire Down ram sales in the palmy days of farming were organized upon the same scale of liberality, and while the sale was proceeding steam was kept up by handing round boxes of sixpenny cigars, and brandy and water in buckets.  It is, of course, good policy to keep a company of buyers in good humour, but I think it has long since been recognized that hospitality was carried a little too far in those times of prosperity, and, in these degenerate if more business-like days, extravagance is much less evident, though there is a hearty welcome and abundance for all.