THE SHEPHERD’S STORY[*]

Washington Gladden

“Bring hither that sheepskin, Joseph, and lay it down on this bank of dry earth, under this shelving rock.  The wind blows chilly from the west, but the rock will shelter us.  The sky is fair and the moon is rising, and we can sit here and watch the flocks on the hillside below.  Your young blood and your father’s coat of skins will keep you warm for one watch, I am sure.  At midnight, my son, your father, Reuben, and his brother James will take our places; for the first watch the old man and the boy will tend the sheep.”

“Yes, grandfather; you shall sit in that snug corner of the rock, where you can lean back and take your comfort.  I will lie here at your feet.  Now and then I will run to see whether the sheep are wandering, and that will warm me, if I grow cold.”

“Have you never been out on the hills at night with your father?”

“Never, grandfather.  I have often begged him to let me come; but he kept saying that I must wait until I was twelve years old.  On the last full moon was my birthday and today, when he returned from Bethlehem to the flocks, he brought me with him.”

“So this is the lad’s first night with the sheep in the fields, and the old man’s last night, I fear,” said the aged shepherd, sadly.  “It is not often in these days that I venture out to keep the watches of the flock; but this one night of the year I have spent upon these hills these many years, and I always shall as long as I have strength to walk so far.”

“Was your father, too, a shepherd?”

“Yes, and all his fathers before him for many generations.  On these hills my ancestors have kept their sheep for I know not how long.”

Joseph was still for a moment.  His eyes wandered away over the silent hills, lit by the rising moon.  His face was troubled.  At length, he said gently: 

“Grandfather, I heard Rabbi Eliezer saying, the other day, in the synagogue, that a shepherd’s life is not a noble life.  He was reading from one of the old doctors, who said:  ’Let no one make his son a camel-driver, a barber, a sailor, a shepherd, or a shopkeeper.  They are dishonest callings.’  I was angry when he read it; but I held my peace.”

“You did well, my son, to hold your peace.  I myself have often heard such words, of late, from the doctors in the synagogues; but it is not wise to answer them.  Where they got their notions, I know not.  From the Egyptians, I think, more than from the prophets.  All Egyptians hate shepherds, and can never speak of them without sneering.  Perhaps they have not yet forgotten how the shepherds conquered and ruled them for generations.  Nevertheless, there is some reason why the calling of the shepherds should be despised.  Many of them are rude and fierce men.  Living out of doors so constantly makes their manners rough and their temper harsh.  They are often quarrelsome.  Such bloody fights as I used to see among them, at the wells in the south country, where they brought their flocks to water and each one wanted the first chance at the well, I hope you will never look upon.”