plain exactly how the deficit arises.
Put the figures before the oldest and most experienced cattleman, and he
will fail to show why they don't work out right. And yet they never do.
It is not the fault of the cattle themselves. Sheep would rather die
than live--and when one comes to think of the life they lead, one can
easily understand their preference for death; but cattle, if given half
a chance, will do their best to prolong their existence.

If they are running on low-lying country and are driven off when a flood
comes, they will probably walk back into the flood-water and get drowned
as soon as their owner turns his back. But, as a rule, cattle are not
suicidal. They sort themselves into mobs, they pick out the best bits of
country, they find their way to the water, they breed habitually; but it
always ends in the same way. The hand of Fate is against them.

If a drought comes, they eat off the grass near the water and have to
travel far out for a feed. Then they fall away and get weak, and when
they come down to drink they get bogged in the muddy waterholes and die
there.

Or Providence sends the pleuro, and big strong beasts slink away by
themselves, and stand under trees glaring savagely till death comes.
Or else the tick attacks them, and soon a fine, strong beast becomes
a miserable, shrunken, tottering wreck. Once cattle get really low in
condition they are done for. Sheep can be shifted when their pasture
fails, but you can't shift cattle. They die quicker on the roads than
on the run. The only thing is to watch and pray for rain. It always
comes--after the cattle are dead.

As for describing the animals themselves, it would take volumes. Sheep
are all alike, but cattle are all different. The drovers on the road
get to know the habits and tendencies of each particular bullock--the
one-eyed bullock that pokes out to the side of the mob, the inquisitive
bullock that is always walking over towards the drover as if he were
going to speak to him, the agitator bullock who is always trying to get
up a stampede and prodding the others with his horns.

In poor Boake's "Where the Dead Men Lie" he says:

Only the hand of Night can free them--
That's when the dead men fly!
Only the frightened cattle see them--
See the dead men go by!
Cloven hoofs beating out one measure,
Bidding the stockman know no leisure--
That's when the dead men take their pleasure!
That's when the