The sheep felt it; they were sluggish and unwilling to leave the barn.

Finally, however, we got them down the lane and out on the hard-frozen highway; Halstead ran ahead, shaking the salt dish; Addison and I, following after, hustled the laggards along.
The leader of our flock was a large brock-faced ewe called Old Peg.

She was known to be at least eleven years old, which is a venerable age for a sheep.

She raised twin lambs every spring and was, indeed, a kind of flock mother, for many of the sheep were either her children or her grandchildren.

Wherever the flock went, she took the lead and set the pace.
So long as we kept Old Peg following Halstead and the salt dish, the rest of the sheep scampered after, and we got on well.
We had gone scarcely more than a mile when, owing to a too hasty breakfast, or the morning chill, Halstead was taken with cramps.