And how I remembered the consequent changes--the paths beginning to form as the goats literally ate their way through the dense thickets; the disappearance of the younger, smaller bushes that were not too tall for total browsing; the vistas that formed in all directions through the older, taller bushes, as the goats browsed as high as they could stand and reach on their hind legs; the driftage of the pasture grasses that followed in the wake of the clearing by the goats.

Yes, the continuity of such dreaming was its charm.

Came the day when the men with axes chopped down all the taller brush so as to give the goats access to the leaves and buds and bark.

Came the day, in winter weather, when the dry denuded skeletons of all these bushes were gathered into heaps and burned.

Came the day when I moved my goats on to other brush-impregnable hillsides, with following in their wake my cattle, pasturing knee-deep in the succulent grasses that grew where before had been only brush.