The OLD SHEPHERD’S Barn
The quaint old man in knee high boots prepared to call them in.
“Get behind the barn,” he said. “If they see you they won’t come.”
“How many sheep?” I asked. “‘Bout 300, lambs ‘n all.”
Now, gesturing toward distant field, no movement was revealed.
Obligingly, I took my place behind the aging barn. Waiting, watching as I hid, chuckling as I did his bidding.
Toward a crumbling fence he moved upon a trampled path. Now he stood near leaning gate and I began my wait.
With steady steps, he walked and called.
No words escaped his weathered lips, just eerie, high toned wailing sounds known only to his flock.
Behind the barn and waiting,
I peeked toward leaning gate. All I saw were rolling fields.
He stood alone to wait.
Suddenly a far off hill was filled with moving masses; now out of sight, no movement seen.
A quiet moment passes.
Another hill and nearer now, all racing through the fields toward Him. There, he waited, calm and still. His presence did not yield.
Three hundred creatures fell in line behind the One whose voice they knew. Now through the gate, into the fold, safe at last.
The Shepherd brought them home.
“My sheep listen to my voice;I know them, and they follow me.”
Photography by Mary Anne Whitchurch Tuck
Mr. Bischoff’s Sheep