The sheep's wool was faded. Its wheels had escaped. All of this only made it more authentic. I had never seen such a wonderful sheep. I looked back through the hole but the boy had disappeared. I went into the house and brought out a treasure of my own： a pinecone， opened， full of odor and resin， which I adored. I set it down in the same spot and went off with the sheep.
I never saw either the hand or the boy again. And I have never again seen a sheep like that either. The toy I lost finally in a fire. But even now， in 1954， almost fifty years old， whenever I pass a toy shop， I look furtively into the window， but it's no use. They don't make sheep like that anymore.