Further in, and close under the bank, where they had huddled themselves for warmth, we found all the rest of the poor sheep packed, as closely as if they were in a great pie.  It was strange to observe how their vapour and breath, and the moisture exuding from their wool had scooped, as it were, a coved room for them, lined with a ribbing of deep yellow snow.  Also the churned snow beneath their feet was as yellow as gamboge.  Two or three of the weaklier hoggets were dead, from want of air, and from pressure; but more than three-score were as lively as ever; though cramped and stiff for a little while.

“However shall us get ’em home?” John Fry asked in great dismay, when we had cleared about a dozen of them; which we were forced to do very carefully, so as not to fetch the roof down.  “No manner of maning to draive ’un, drough all they girt driftnesses.”

“You see to this place, John,” I replied, as we leaned on our shovels a moment, and the sheep came rubbing round us; “let no more of them out for the present; they are better where they be.  Watch, here boy, keep them!”

Watch came, with his little scut of a tail cocked as sharp as duty, and I set him at the narrow mouth of the great snow antre.  All the sheep sidled away, and got closer, that the other sheep might be bitten first, as the foolish things imagine; whereas no good sheep-dog even so much as lips a sheep to turn it.

Then of the outer sheep (all now snowed and frizzled like a lawyer’s wig) I took the two finest and heaviest, and with one beneath my right arm, and the other beneath my left, I went straight home to the upper sheppey, and set them inside and fastened them.  Sixty and six I took home in that way, two at a time on each journey; and the work grew harder and harder each time, as the drifts of the snow were deepening.  No other man should meddle with them; I was resolved to try my strength against the strength of the elements; and try it I did, ay, and proved it.  A certain fierce delight burned in me, as the struggle grew harder; but rather would I die than yield; and at last I finished it.  People talk of it to this day; but none can tell what the labour was, who have not felt that snow and wind.

[Illustration:  361.jpg None can tell what the labour was]

Of the sheep upon the mountain, and the sheep upon the western farm, and the cattle on the upper barrows, scarcely one in ten was saved; do what we would for them, and this was not through any neglect (now that our wits were sharpened), but from the pure impossibility of finding them at all.  That great snow never ceased a moment for three days and nights; and then when all the earth was filled, and the topmost hedges were unseen, and the trees broke down with weight (wherever the wind had not lightened them), a brilliant sun broke forth and showed the loss of all our customs.