'Ingleborough, Pendle and Pen-y-Ghent Are the highest hills 'twixt
Scotland and Trent.' So sing I, the Shepherd of Pendle, to myself, and
so have I sung, on summer days, these many years, lying out atop of
old Pendle Hill, keeping watch over my flock.
In good sooth, a shepherd's life is a hard one, on our Lancashire
fells, for nine months out of the twelve. The nights begin to be sharp
with frost towards the back-end of the year, for all the days are
sunny and warm at times. Bitter cold it is in winter and worse in
spring, albeit the daylight is longer.
'As the day lengthens, so the cold strengthens,' runs the rhyme, and
well do men know the truth of it in these parts. Many a time a man
must be ready to give his own life for his sheep, aye and do it too,
to save them in a snow-drift or from the biting frost. It is an
anxious season for the shepherd, until he sees the lambs safely at
play and able to stand upon their weak legs and run after their
mothers. But it is not until the dams are clipped that a shepherd has
an easy mind and can let his thoughts dwell on other things. Then, at
last, in the summer, his time runs gently for a while; and I, for one,
was always ready to enjoy myself, when once the bitter weather was
over.
So there I was, one day many years ago, nigh upon Midsummer, lying out
on the grassy slopes atop of old Pendle Hill, and singing to myself--
'Ingleborough, Pendle and Pen-y-Ghent
Are the highest hills 'twixt Scotland and Trent.'
But for all I sang of the hills, my thoughts were in the valleys. I
lay there, watching till the sun should catch the steep roof of a
certain cot I know. It stands by the side of a stream, so hidden among
the bushes that even my eye cannot find it, unless the sunlight finds
it first, and flashes back at me from roof and window-pane. That was
the cot I had never lived in then, but I hoped to live in it before
the summer was over, and to bring the bonniest lass in all yon broad
Yorkshire there with me as my bride. That was to be if things went
well with me and with the sheep; for my master had promised to give me
a full wage (seeing I had now reached man's estate), if so be I came
through the spring and early summer without losing a single lamb.
Thinking of these things, and dreaming dreams as a lad will, the hours
trod swiftly over Pendle Hill that day; for all the sun was going down
the sky but slowly, seeing it was Midsummer-tide.
Suddenly, as I lay there looking down over the slope, I saw a strange
sight, for travellers are scarce on Pendle Hill even at Midsummer. But
it was a traveller surely, or was it a shepherd? At first I could not
be sure; for he carried a lamb in his arms and trod warily with it, in
the way that shepherds do. Yet I never met a shepherd clad in clothes
like his; nor with a face like his either, as I saw it, when he came
nearer. Weary he looked, and with a pale countenance, as if he had
much ado to come up the hill, and in good sooth 'tis full steep just
there; or else, may be, he was fasting and faint for lack of food. But
all this I only thought of later. At the time, I looked not much at
him, but only at the lamb he carried in his arms. How came such a
man to be carrying a lamb, and carrying it full gently and carefully
too, supporting one leg with both hands, although he was encumbered
with a staff? Then, when he had come yet nearer, I saw that it was not
only a lamb--it was one of my master's lambs, my own lambs that I was
set to watch; for there on its wool was the brand carried by our
flocks and by none others on all those fells. One of my lambs, lying
in a stranger's arms! A careless shepherd I! I must have been asleep
or dreaming ... dreaming foolish dreams about that cottage, on which
the sun might shine unheeded now, I cared not for it, being full of
other thoughts. No sooner did I espy the brand on the lamb than I rose
to my feet, and, even as I ran nimbly down the slope towards the
stranger, my eyes roamed over the hillside to discover which of my
lambs had strayed:--Rosamond, Cowslip, Eglantine and Gillyflower--I
could see them all safe with their dams, and many more besides. All
the lambs that springtime I had named after the flowers that I hoped
to plant another year in the garden of that cot beside the stream. And
all the flowers I could see and name were safe beside their dams, as I
leapt down the hillside. Nay, Periwinkle was missing! Periwinkle was
ever a strayer, and Periwinkle's dam was bleating at the edge of the
steep cliff up which the stranger toiled. It was Periwinkle and none
other that he was carrying in his arms! Seeing it was Periwinkle, I
halloed to him to halt. Hearing my cry, he stopped, and waited till I
reached him, all the time holding the lamb carefully, tending it and
speaking to it in the tone a shepherd is wont to use.
[Illustration: 'DREAMING OF THE COT IN THE VALE']
'Thanks to you, Good Stranger,' I said, as I came nearer, 'Periwinkle
is ever a strayer. Did you see her fall?'
'Nay,' said the Stranger, giving the lamb tenderly into my arms, and
halting upon his staff; speaking warily and weightily as I never heard
a man speak before or since. 'Nay; the lambkin must have fallen before
I came by. But I heard the mother bleat, and I knew, by the sound,
that she was in distress. Therefore I turned towards the crag upon
which she stood, and, looking down, I perceived the lamb fallen among
the brambles beneath a high ledge.'
'And went down over for her yourself and brought her up again! 'Twas
bravely done, Good Stranger,' I answered, and then, thinking to
encourage him, I said, 'Better you could not have done it, had you
been a shepherd yourself, for I see your hands are torn.'
'It is nothing,' he answered. 'A shepherd expects that.'
'Then are you a shepherd too, Master Stranger?' I asked, but he gave
no answer; only fastened his eyes upon me as we climbed together up
the hill. Wonderful eyes he had, not like to other men's; with a depth
and yet a light in them, as when the June sun shines back reflected
from the blackness of a mountain tarn. I saw them then, and still I
seem to see them, for when he looked at me, although he said no word,
it was as if he knew me apart from everyone else in the world, even as
I know every one of my master's sheep. I felt that he knew too how I
had been looking at that cot in the vale and dreaming idly, forgetful
of my lambs. Therefore, though he said no word of rebuke to me, I
felt my cheeks grow hot, and I hung my head and spake not. Only, when
we reached the top of the hill, he turned and answered me at last.
'Thou judgest right, friend,' he said, 'I was indeed a shepherd in my
young years. I am a shepherd even now, though as yet with full few
sheep. But, hereafter, it may be....'
I did not wait for the end of his sentence. Now that we were come to
level ground I was fain to show that I was not a careless, idle
shepherd in truth. My mind was set on Periwinkle's leg; broken, I
feared, for it hung down limply. I took her,--laid her on the grass
beside her dam while I fashioned a rough splint, shepherd-fashion, to
keep the leg steady till we reached the fold. Then, seeing the sun was
low by this time and nigh to setting over beyond the sea towards
Morecambe, I called my sheep and gathered them from all the fells,
near and far; and a fairer flock of sheep ye shall never see 'twixt
Scotland and Trent, as the song says, though I trow ye may, an ye look
carefully, find steeper hills than old Pendle.
When my work was done, I took up Periwinkle in my arms once more,
anxious to descend with her ere night fell. Already I was climbing
carefully down the slope, when, bless me, I remembered the Stranger,
and that I had left him without a word, he having gone clean out of my
mind, and I not having given him so much as a 'thank ye' at parting,
for all he had saved Periwinkle. But I think I must have gone clean
out of his mind too.
When I came back to him once more, there he was, still standing on the
very top of the hill, where I had left him. But now his head was
raised, the breeze lifted his hair. A kind of glory was on him. It
was light from the sunset sky, I thought at first; but it was brighter
far than that; for the sunset sky looked dull and dim beside it. His
eyes were roaming far and wide over the valleys and hills, even as my
eyes had wandered, when I was gathering my sheep. But his eyes
wandered further, and further far, till they reached the utmost line
of the Irish Sea to westward and covered all the country that lay
between. Then he turned himself around to the east again. A strong man
he was and a tall, and the glory was still on his face, though now he
had the sunset sky at his back. And he opened his mouth and spake.
Strange were his words:
'If but one man,' said he, 'but one man or woman, were raised by the
Lord's Power to stand and live in the same Spirit that the Apostles
and Prophets were in, he or she should shake all this country for
miles round.' Shake all the country! He had uttered a fearsome thing.
'Nay, Master Stranger, bethink ye,' I said, going up to him, 'how may
that be? What would happen to me and the sheep were these fells to
shake? Even now, though they stand steady, you have seen that wayward
lambs like Periwinkle will fall over and do themselves a mischief.' So
I spake, being but a witless lad. But my words might have been the
wind passing by him, so little he heeded them. I doubt if he even
heard or knew that I was there although I stood close at his side. For
again his eyes were resting on the Irish Sea, and on the country that
lay shining in the sun towards Furness, and on the wide, glistening
sands round Morecambe Bay. And then he turned himself round to the
north where lie the high mountains that can at times be seen, or
guessed, in the glow of the setting sun. Thus, as he gazed on all that
fair land, the Stranger spoke. Again he uttered strange words.
At first his voice was low and what he said reached me not, save only
the words: 'A great people, a great people to be gathered.'
Whereat I, being, as I say, but a lad then, full of my own notions and
mighty sure of myself as young lads are, plucked at his sleeve, having
heard but the last words, and supposing that he had watched me
gathering my flock for the fold.
'Not people, Master Stranger,' I interrupted. ''Tis my business to
gather sheep. Sheep and silly, heedless lambs like Periwinkle, 'tis
them I must gather for my master's fold.'
He saw and heard me then, full surely.
'Aye,' he said, and his voice, though deep, had music in it, while his
eyes pierced me yet again, but more gently this time, so that I made
sure he had seen me tending Periwinkle and knew that I had done the
best I could. 'Aye, verily thou dost well. Shepherd of Pendle, to
gather lambs and silly sheep for their master's fold. I, too....' But
there again he broke off and fell once more into silence.
Thus I left him, still standing atop of the hill; but as I turned to
go I heard his voice yet again, and though I looked not round, the
sound of it was as if a man were speaking to his friend, for all I
knew that he stood there, atop of the hill, alone:
'I thank thee, Lord, that Thou hast let me see this day in what places
Thou hast a great people, a great people to be gathered.'
Thereat I partly understood, yet turned not back again, nor sought to
enquire further of his meaning; for the daylight was fast fading and I
had need of all my skill in getting home my sheep.