Heart of a Shepherd Read Online Free
Author: Rosanne Parry
in the direction of the door. Grandma understands about playing chess with Grandpa. I guess she loves all her grandsons the same, but when it comes to chess, it's me she's rooting for. She's got a whole stack of big sisters, so she always says, “Brother, us youngests ought to stick up for each other.”
Daylight is still hanging over the Strawberry Mountains, but it's dark enough to see Jupiter two fists up from the barn roof. I hear music coming from the hired-man shack. It sounds magical and sad, like something elves would play. Ernesto plays his pipes in the evening sometimes. When he first came, in September, I loved to hear him play. Now I know he only plays on nights when the letter from his kids in Ecuador is late. Usually a letter comes once a week. Every Friday afternoon, when Grandma comes home from her two hours at the little post office in town, Ernesto is waiting, with his hat in hand like it's a sacred moment.
I know just how he feels, because I hardly ever have a letter from Dad. I know it's a command thing. Battalion commanders are too busy to write. Still, I'mglad it's not my job to tell Ernesto there's no mail from home.
I slide back the barn door and walk past the stalls in the dark, heading for the warm glow of the lamb crib. I climb over the rails and hop in. A mound of pearl white peeks out of the hay, and I count four noses. They're the bum lambs. That's what you call it when the ewe dies and leaves a baby. It hardly seems fair. Being an orphan is depressing enough without being called a bum too. If I can keep these lambs alive all winter, I'll tag them in the spring and keep them in my own flock.
I kick the straw around a bit to find a spot that hasn't been pooped on and settle cross-legged in the corner of the pen, leaning back against a hay bale. The lambs aren't supposed to have names—only horses and dogs are allowed to have names—but I call them Frodo, Merry, Pippin, and Bilbo. I know better than to call one Sam, because Sam is my favorite Hobbit in the whole story.
I pull Pippin into my lap. “Drink up now. I want to see some muscle on these ribs.”
Pippin makes a dive for the nipple. Lambs are the sloppiest drinkers. They jerk their heads around and dribble. I shift Pip to the right so I don't get milk droolin my cookie pocket. I wish there were more than four lambs, because they'd keep warmer in the huddle. It's going to get cold tonight.
When Pippin's done I tuck him under my knees, but he's got other ideas. He runs in circles for a bit and then starts jumping up on the hay bale and butting his head on the top rail of the lamb crib. Frodo's all for running around too, so I have to hold him snug to get him to drink his formula.
Frodo has definitely gained a little, but Merry's got a rattle in his breathing. I lift him up and press my ear to his ribs. It's not my imagination. He's got some kind of gunk in his lungs. If he's sick, I should keep him away from the other three, only he'll freeze alone and the others need him for warmth.
I hate this part of ranching. It's way worse than losing at chess. Animals die, and it feels the same amount of awful every time.
By the time I'm done feeding Merry and Bilbo, Pippin is tired again. He flops down in the hay, and the rest of the lambs pile in on top of him. I settle Merry in the heap with his nose pointing toward the other lambs’ tails. I put a fresh bulb in the heat lamp and pull it low over them. It's probably not enough. I hop out of the crib and get the bottle of holy water that sits overthe barn door. Grandma uses it for the lambing and calving season. She never said I couldn't have some. Grandpa doesn't really hold with holy water and praying to the saints, but he lets Grandma steer the religion around here. I flip up the plastic spout, shake a drop or two on Merry's head, and say Saint Patrick's blessing:
“Christ in front of me. Christ behind me.
Christ on my right side and Christ on my left.
Christ when I go to sleep at
Daylight is still hanging over the Strawberry Mountains, but it's dark enough to see Jupiter two fists up from the barn roof. I hear music coming from the hired-man shack. It sounds magical and sad, like something elves would play. Ernesto plays his pipes in the evening sometimes. When he first came, in September, I loved to hear him play. Now I know he only plays on nights when the letter from his kids in Ecuador is late. Usually a letter comes once a week. Every Friday afternoon, when Grandma comes home from her two hours at the little post office in town, Ernesto is waiting, with his hat in hand like it's a sacred moment.
I know just how he feels, because I hardly ever have a letter from Dad. I know it's a command thing. Battalion commanders are too busy to write. Still, I'mglad it's not my job to tell Ernesto there's no mail from home.
I slide back the barn door and walk past the stalls in the dark, heading for the warm glow of the lamb crib. I climb over the rails and hop in. A mound of pearl white peeks out of the hay, and I count four noses. They're the bum lambs. That's what you call it when the ewe dies and leaves a baby. It hardly seems fair. Being an orphan is depressing enough without being called a bum too. If I can keep these lambs alive all winter, I'll tag them in the spring and keep them in my own flock.
I kick the straw around a bit to find a spot that hasn't been pooped on and settle cross-legged in the corner of the pen, leaning back against a hay bale. The lambs aren't supposed to have names—only horses and dogs are allowed to have names—but I call them Frodo, Merry, Pippin, and Bilbo. I know better than to call one Sam, because Sam is my favorite Hobbit in the whole story.
I pull Pippin into my lap. “Drink up now. I want to see some muscle on these ribs.”
Pippin makes a dive for the nipple. Lambs are the sloppiest drinkers. They jerk their heads around and dribble. I shift Pip to the right so I don't get milk droolin my cookie pocket. I wish there were more than four lambs, because they'd keep warmer in the huddle. It's going to get cold tonight.
When Pippin's done I tuck him under my knees, but he's got other ideas. He runs in circles for a bit and then starts jumping up on the hay bale and butting his head on the top rail of the lamb crib. Frodo's all for running around too, so I have to hold him snug to get him to drink his formula.
Frodo has definitely gained a little, but Merry's got a rattle in his breathing. I lift him up and press my ear to his ribs. It's not my imagination. He's got some kind of gunk in his lungs. If he's sick, I should keep him away from the other three, only he'll freeze alone and the others need him for warmth.
I hate this part of ranching. It's way worse than losing at chess. Animals die, and it feels the same amount of awful every time.
By the time I'm done feeding Merry and Bilbo, Pippin is tired again. He flops down in the hay, and the rest of the lambs pile in on top of him. I settle Merry in the heap with his nose pointing toward the other lambs’ tails. I put a fresh bulb in the heat lamp and pull it low over them. It's probably not enough. I hop out of the crib and get the bottle of holy water that sits overthe barn door. Grandma uses it for the lambing and calving season. She never said I couldn't have some. Grandpa doesn't really hold with holy water and praying to the saints, but he lets Grandma steer the religion around here. I flip up the plastic spout, shake a drop or two on Merry's head, and say Saint Patrick's blessing:
“Christ in front of me. Christ behind me.
Christ on my right side and Christ on my left.
Christ when I go to sleep at
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