THE SHEEP FAIR;  AN OLD ENGLISH SCENE.....The other day I was walking the South Downs - that part not far from Worthing which ends abruptly at Findon, and slopes gently up to Cissbury and Kithurst old camps, the former noted for the remains of its ancient mines.

This is a world of soaring larks, peaceful undulations, and scented by the wild thyme that grows abundantly on the short crisp sward.  The most disturbing sounds one hears in this rural paradise are those of an occasional aeroplane and the soft thudding of hooves as "chasers" take their exercise preparatory to the opening of the hurdle race season.

Presently I heard the sound of music - low, haunting music, yet strangely familiar.  Surely it could not be a roundabout?  I wondered.  Then came the pop-pop-pop of rifles, reminding one of the shooting galleries that are to be found at fairs.  But, above all, and dominating al other sounds, came the bleating of sheep and the barking of dogs.

Soon I found myself at the foot of Findon Downs and was entangled in a slow procession - a woolly, bleating procession of sheep.

Wonderingly I turned to a shepherd, one of the old type, complete in blue smocked coat, carrying a crook and followed by bob-tailed old English sheep dogs.

"What's on?" I asked.   Quick came the answer:

"Why it be Findon girt ship fair, Maaster.  B'aint ut?  I allows 'tis."

Then on the summit of that gentle green slope I found the cause of all the excitement, the bleating, woolly throng that was wending its way so slowly forward.

There were rows and rows of neat, cunningly woven hazel hurdles placed in alley-ways, and men in bowler hats, caps, or broad-brimmed felts were rushing everywhere, but there was no confusion.  They were the drovers and auctioneer's assistants marshalling the sheep to their appointed pens, where soon the auctioneers, mounted on a wooden ladder, would sell them to keen bidders.

Over some of the pens was nailed a red card (signifying the coveted first prize);  over others a blue card to show that they were second, while some even had yellow cards, proving that they were "Highly Commended".

The pens were filled with sheep of all kinds, neat compact mouse-brown-faced little South-downs, reared on these "whale-backed" Downs;  black-faced Suffolks and Hampshire Downs; white bald-headed Cheviots and Border-Leicesters;  speckled face Kerry Hills;  cross-breds of all kinds, while above the level of the hurdles every now and then horns were elevated to show that even here in the heart of rural Sussex, Scottish Black faces and Exmoors were on view.  Far away at the end of these pens was another "run" of hurdles, and here I found the aristocratic sires, the rams and ram lambs that would not share the fate of the lambs and ewes and be sold in pens of ten or twenty, but would face the auctioneer singly.

The music I heard came from an old-world fair, complete with swing-boats, merry-go-rounds, cocoa-nut shies, shooting galleries, try-your-weight machines and "all the fun of the fair".  Thus while some of the large crowd were busy with the sheep, others who had come for a day out laid out their substance on more fleeting joys.  Then there were dogs - rows and rows of dogs - all trained to sheep and shepherding, and all loudly lamenting the fact that it was necessary that they should be tied up while the sale was in progress.   Wonderful, intelligent dogs of all breeds and all types of mongrels too.   So greatly does the shepherd value a good dog that recently I met one who would not sell his assistant in fair weather or foul for eighty guineas - a large sum this for a dog of no particular breed, but of very special brains!

Now the auctioneer has mounted his movable rostrum and is commencing his business.  In the pen is a well-known figure, a drover who has been "showing" sheep for auctioneers for over fifty years.   With his bowler hat pushed well over his keen eyes, he handles the animals, raising here and there a head, or pointing to portions of the anatomy to call the attention of the buyers to particular points of value.

"There, look-ee wot a head!  Never better this wool, Mr B.  What a leg o' mutton, Mr X.   Just what you need".

The auctioneer, clear of voice and debonair, goes steadily on with his work.

"Thirty shillings I'm bid.  At thirty shillings.  Thank you, at thirty-one.  Come, come, this is no price at all for the best blood in the Flock Book.  Thirty-five.  Forty.  Why couldn't you have started there?  Going at forty-five - at forty-five - for the last time at forty-five - bought by Mr. D.....    I congratulate you, sir".

Then with a rush come the porters, and while the auctioneer gets down, they seize the rostrum, steps or ladder, whichever you like to call it, and rush with it to a few spot of vantage, and the crowd melts before them to the cry of

"Mind your backs!  Mind your backs!"

And of what does this crowd consist?  Farmers in grey flannel suits, or in sports coats, and the best cut of riding breeches;  men in plus fours;  some in the khaki remnants of H.M. uniform;  men in morning coats and bowler hats;  dainty ladies jostling the farmers;  shepherds, dealers and drovers cheek by jowl, and others of their sex in shorts and "hiking" get up.  Shepherds there are with flowing beards, weird caps and coats, with the old-time mutton chop whiskers, but all are, and have been keenly interested in sheep and sheep breeding, which is after all Great Britain's oldest industry.

I hear flock masters comparing notes of the prices they have made.   One talks of Scotland and Kelso;  others of Ipswich and Colchester;  some of Lewes and Chichester, while there are others who mention ...

"Craven Arms and Kerry whateffer".

As the sale progresses and the sheep are sold come big double-decked lorries, or small trailers attached to the ordinary motor-car,  and into these vehicles the sheep are hurried and conveyed to pastures new and fresh owners.  Some go away in little flocks or bunches, stopping to graze as they go, and behind them walks a shepherd, crook in hand and dog at heel.

The sun is fast setting ere the sale is over, and as we exchange the brilliant sunshine for the dusky shades of eventide, flaring naptha lights appear on the fair ground, the merry-go-round does an increased trade, the stalls are rapidly depleted of "rock" and other delicacies, while the pop of the little rifles out does the bleating of the sheep.