It was most
laughable to see the change in the sheep--most of them looking lean
and lanky, whereas in less than one short minute before, their sides
had been broad and woolly. A third man to wait upon the shearer was
kept busy at his right carefully gathering the wool and stuffing it in
huge sacks. Every effort was made to keep it clean, and every tiny bit
was saved.
About four o'clock we reached Rock Creek, where we remained overnight
at a little inn. The house is built of logs, and the architecture is
about as queer as its owner. Mrs. Gates, wife of the proprietor, can
be, and usually is, very cross and disagreeable, and I rather dreaded
stopping there alone. But she met me pleasantly--that is, she did not
snap my head off--so I gathered courage to ask for a room that would
be near some one, as I was timid at night. That settled my standing in
her opinion, and with a "Humph!" she led the way across a hall and
through a large room where there were several beds, and opening a door
on the farther side that led to still another room, she told me I
could have that, adding that I "needn't be scared to death, as the
boys will sleep right there." I asked her how old the boys were, and
she snapped, "How old! why they's men folks," and out of the room she
went. Upon looking around I saw that my one door opened into the next
room, and that as soon as the "boys" occupied it I would be virtually
a prisoner.
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