He made much of the story of the sheep, showing to these children, who
knew little of shepherds and little of mountains, a picture which held
them breathless. For far back, perhaps, the ancestors of these
sand-hill folk had herded sheep on the hills of Scotland.
Then he sang the song, and so well did he tell the story and so well
did he sing the song that they rejoiced with him over the sheep that
was found--for he had made it a little lamb--helpless and bleating, and
wanting very much its mother.
The song, borne on the wings of the wind, reached the ears of a man
with a worn face, who slouched in the shadow of the pines.
Later he spoke to Roger Poole. "I reckon I'm that lost sheep," he
said, soberly, "an' nobody ain't gone out to find me--yit."
"Find yourself," said Roger.
The man stared.
"Find yourself," Roger said; "look at those little gardens over there
that the children have made. Can you match them?"
"I reckon I've got somethin' else to do beside make gardens," drawled
the man.
"What have you got to do that's better?" Roger demanded.
The man hesitated and Roger pressed his point. "Flowers for the
children--crops for men--I'll wager you've a lot of land and don't know
what to do with it. Let's try to make things grow."
"Us? You mean you and me, parson?"
"Yes. And while we plant and sow, we'll talk about the state of your
soul." Roger reached out his hand to the lean and lank sinner.
And the lean and lank sinner took it, with something beginning to glow
in the back of his eyes.
"I reckon I ain't got on to your scheme of salvation," he remarked
shrewdly, "but somehow I have a feelin' that I ain't goin' to git
through those days of plantin' crops with you without your plantin'
somethin' in me that's bound to grow."
In such ways did Roger meet men, women and children, reaching out from
his loneliness to their need, giving much and receiving more.
It was on Tuesday morning that he came back finally to the house which
seemed empty because of Cousin Patty's absence. The little lady was
still in Washington, whence she had written hurried notes, promising
more when the rush was over.
At the gate he met the rural carrier, who gave him the letters. There
was one on top from Mary Ballard.
Roger tore it open and read it, as he walked toward the house. It
contained only a scribbled line--but it set his pulses bounding.