From their folded mates they wander far,
Their ways seem harsh and wild;
They follow the beck of a baleful star,
Their paths are dream-beguiled.
Yet haply they sought but a wider range,
Some loftier mountain-slope,
And little recked of the country strange
Beyond the gates of hope.
And haply a bell with a luring call
Summoned their feet to tread
Midst the cruel rocks, where the deep pitfall
And the lurking snare are spread.
Maybe, in spite of their tameless days
Of outcast liberty,
They’re sick at heart for the homely ways
Where their gathered brothers be.
And oft at night, when the plains fall dark
And the hills loom large and dim,
For the Shepherd’s voice they mutely hark,
And their souls go out to him.
Meanwhile, “Black sheep! Black sheep!” we cry,
Safe in the inner fold;
And maybe they hear, and wonder why,
And marvel, out in the cold.
_Oliver Herford_
Oliver Herford was born in December, 1863, at Manchester, England.
He studied art in London and at Julien’s in Paris, turned to
literature as a pastime and, about 1890, came to the United States,
where he has lived ever since.
Herford, celebrated as a wit as well as a draughtsman and versifier,
is the author of no less than twenty volumes of light verse, prose
pasquinades and burlesques. His _The Bashful Earthquake_ (1898),
_Rubaiyat of a Persian Kitten_ (1904) and _This Giddy Globe_ (1919)
show Herford’s delicate skill and his versatile dexterity. These
volumes, like most of Herford’s, are embellished by his own
drawings, which are fully as graceful as the accompanying verses.