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The shepherd does not see his people for weeks.
He is far up in bare hills.

But there are other shepherds in those hills.
They all grow lonely.

Sometimes they hear one another's pipes far away.
"There are other shepherds," they say to themselves.
They drive their sheep in the direction of the music.
When they meet they are very glad.

"Let us camp together," they say.

So they build sheds for themselves and their sheep.

They make them of brush or of rushes.

The sheep-shed is a big ring with a roof around the edge. The men's sheds are like beehives.

Inside is a shelf for the men to lie on.

On the ground in the middle burns a little fire.

Here the shepherds all live for weeks.

When the grass is gone they move on to a new camp.


A shepherd stood on the mountain-side.

He was counting his sheep.

One was gone.

Across the valley was another mountain-side.
Here was another shepherd with his sheep.

The first shepherd called across to him.

He had to call very loudly and slowly, because it was far away. He said: "I have lost a sheep. Is he with you?"

"I will see," called the other shepherd.

He counted his sheep.

There was one too many.

Now, all sheep look very much alike.

How could he tell which one was not his?

The sheep all had their heads down eating.

The shepherd gave his call.

All his sheep knew that call.
They raised their heads.

But one sheep kept on eating.

The shepherd shouted: "Yes, I have one strange sheep." Then the other shepherd gave his call.

It floated softly across the valley.

The strange sheep heard it and lifted its head.

"He is yours," called the man who was watching.

Then the other shepherd left his dog to guard his herd.
He came across the valley, and got his lost sheep.

Would that my father had taught me

The craft of a keeper of sheep;

For so, in the shade of an elm tree,

Or under a rock on the steep,

Piping on reeds I had sat

And had lulled my sorrow to sleep!


Goats are very useful to men.

People drink their milk.


They make cheese from the milk.

They eat the meat of goats.

They make pails and bottles from the skin.
They make cloth from the hair.

They can make pretty cloth without any dye.
That is because goat hair is of so many colors.
Some goats are black.

Some are white.

Some are dark brown.

Some are light brown.

Some are blue-gray.

A herd of goats on a mountain-side is very pretty.

The rocks are big and rough and gray.

Little green plants grow in the cracks.

The goats, brown and black and white and gray, jump from

rock to rock and eat these plants.

The shepherd with his crook sits on a rock.

He has a bright handkerchief on his head.

These goats do not belong to him.

Down the mountain is a little village.

The goats belong to the people of this village.

Early in the morning the shepherd walks through the village.

The goats are waiting for him at their own doors.

He whistles, and the goats walk on ahead of him.

In the evening he drives them home.

When a goat comes to her own door she turns in.
Sometimes she has to go upstairs to be milked.
Up she goes without any fuss.


There was a shepherd boy called Giotto.

He lived in Italy long ago.

His father had a little stone house on a hillside.

It was a little village of stone houses.

Below it were green fields beside a river.

Above it was the rocky hill.

The father worked in the fields by the river.
The boy Giotto tended the sheep on the hill.
There he lay, while the sheep ate.

He looked at the clouds in the blue sky.

He saw the little houses and the green fields.

He watched the sun set behind the hills.

He looked at his sheep with their heads down, eating.

He had nothing to do, so he took a little stone and scratched

on a big smooth rock.

Sometimes he made only crooked marks.

Sometimes he made pictures of his sheep.

He made them lying down.

He made them running.

He made them eating.

One day a stranger came up the hill on a horse.

He saw the boy lying down scratching with his stone.

He rode near and stopped.

He looked at the pictures on the rock.

He watched the boy at work.

At last he said: "These are good sheep, my boy.

"I make pictures myself, I am an artist.

"I have a work shop down in the city.

"Come down and work with me.

"I will teach you to use brush and paints.

"I will show you how to make pictures of Christ and of


Giotto leaped up with joy.

Of course he wanted to go.

He and the stranger went to his father.

They talked for a long time.

At last the father said "Yes."

Then Giotto tied some clothes into a bundle.

He kissed his father and mother and started for the city.

There he worked for years.

He learned how to paint.

He made very beautiful pictures of Christ and of Mary and of angels.

But he could do other things also.

He could carve marble.

He could make buildings.

He built a beautiful tower for bells.

He made it of marble-green, white, pink.

Into it he put little pictures carved in marble.

One of them is a picture of a man plowing.

Another is a picture of a man sitting in his tent-door.

In front of him are his sheep.

His dog is watching them.

I think that when Giotto made those pictures he was thinking of his old home, his sheep, his father's fields.


When I was a little girl, I used to like sheep-shearing time.
It was in spring.

The days were warm.

The sheep did not need their thick winter wool.

It began to come out.

When I played in the woods, I often found locks of it on the bushes.

"We must not lose any more wool," my father said when he saw it.

"We must do our shearing."

The men put on their high rubber boots and went down to the creek.

We children ran along to watch.

We liked the fun.

The brook ran through the woods pasture.

The sheep were running among the trees.

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