This is one of my happy springtime memories:

growing up in a small town, where the countryside was given over to quarries (limestone), farms, and the last remains of the forest before the Anglos showed up.

Sunday driving, there was a country route that took your car past a farm during lambing season. Now, this sounds like a creepy thing to do, and if is, then we were a carload of creeps:

We would drive down the country road that went by the pasture. Pull off the road onto the shoulder, turn the engine off, and roll down the windows. Stay in the car and just listen.

That way we could hear the lambs and the grown sheep talking to each other, and watch the lambs gamboling on the other side of the fence. When we were ready, we rolled up the windows, turned on the ignition, and headed for home.