Len grabbed thin air again. "Come on, sheep," he growled, tired of playing games.
The shears lay waiting, ready to give the sheep a new look for the season. The sheep baaed - he thought he was talking - and yielded himself over. His black wool fell off in streaks, a boy scooped it up and tucked it into burlap bags.
When the master came to visit, he asked, "What do we have this time?"
"Three bags full, sir. Two for you and the dame--" the sheep interrupted as Len finished, "and one for the little boy who lives down the lane."
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