Nevertheless, The Barbarous Notion Is Almost Universally Entertained By Civilized Man, That There Is In All The Manufactures Of Nature Something Essentially Coarse Which Can And Must Be Eradicated By Human Culture.

I was, therefore, delighted in finding that the wild wool growing upon mountain sheep in the neighborhood of Mount Shasta was much finer than the average grades of cultivated wool.

This FINE discovery was made some three months ago[1], while hunting among the Shasta sheep between Shasta and Lower Klamath Lake. Three fleeces were obtained - one that belonged to a large ram about four years old, another to a ewe about the same age, and another to a yearling lamb. After parting their beautiful wool on the side and many places along the back, shoulders, and hips, and examining it closely with my lens, I shouted: "Well done for wildness! Wild wool is finer than tame!"

My companions stooped down and examined the fleeces for themselves, pulling out tufts and ringlets, spinning them between their fingers, and measuring the length of the staple, each in turn paying tribute to wildness. It WAS finer, and no mistake; finer than Spanish Merino. Wild wool IS finer than tame.

"Here," said I, "is an argument for fine wildness that needs no explanation. Not that such arguments are by any means rare, for all wildness is finer than tameness, but because fine wool is appreciable by everybody alike - from the most speculative president of national wool-growers' associations all the way down to the gude-wife spinning by her ingleside."

Nature is a good mother, and sees well to the clothing of her many bairns - birds with smoothly imbricated feathers, beetles with shining jackets, and bears with shaggy furs.

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