CONTENTS
The golden arrow
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Author: Webb Mary (1881-1927)
Year: 1916
Outside, from somewhere up on the first plateau, broke out a sudden bleating of sheep, contented yet eager.
Everyone listened, silent.
It broke out again – a wistful cry, full of a longing which seemed fulfilled and yet ever renewed. Coming down the dark slopes in the clear, chilly air, it set the imagination on fire.
"Aye," said John in a hushed voice, "'tis All-halontid. Year in, year out, I hear the sheep cry, nights. But never as they cry on All-halontid, Christmas Eve and Midsummer night. And on those nights, if so be you was up by the signpost that makes the shadow of a cross in the light of the moon, you'd see the sheep clustering, all turned one way and not afeerd. And I'm thinking they see him there – the Flockmaster himself, with his worn feet and his eye for sorrow and the wideness of his pity. I'm thinking I'd liefer be there then," said he dreamily, "and hear him call across the little hills and the high mountains than gather the treasures of earth and heaven."
I've seed him lead out his flock ath'art the sky. I've seed him lead the spring flowers down the pastures; I've hearkened at his voice in the heather.
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