It was on my second night in bed that I made a great discovery. Philip had gone down to supper, and I had pulled out my Bible from under my pillow, for I was rather shy about letting anyone see me read it. As I turned the pages of the Gospels, looking for stories, I came across the tenth chapter of St. John's gospel, and the word Shepherd caught my eye at once.
I had often heard the chapter read in church and at school, but I had forgotten where in the Bible it came. Now I read it with great excitement. Here it was, all over again:
“I am the Good Shepherd: the Good Shepherd gives his life for the sheep.”
I did not understand the verses about thieves and robbers, but I understood about the sheep following. That meant being good and doing what the Shepherd said. But what could it mean about “hearing the Shepherd's voice”? The clergyman had said that Jesus would speak to me and that I must obey, but although I had lain in bed with my eyes shut, listening hard, I could hear nothing. How could I know His voice if He never spoke to me?
This question troubled me quite a lot that night and the next day, until I suddenly had a good idea. I would go and see Mr. Tandy, take him my postcard, and tell him about what had happened. Perhaps he would be able to tell me about the Shepherd's voice.
I was very impatient to get up after this, and was allowed to go down to tea on the fourth day. It was a happy meal, and I went to bed thinking that after all it was much nicer being good. Being naughty was not really worth it.
Luckily, the next day was sunny, and after dinner I set off joyfully across the fields with Philip. It was a special afternoon because I had not been out for four whole days, and also it felt rather precious because the end of the holidays was so near. We had a wonderful afternoon playing with a baby squirrel that Philip found in an oak tree.
Suddenly I thought of something. “Philip,” I said, “I'm going home now. You see, I especially want to visit somebody on the way back.”
“All right,” answered Philip happily, “we'll go. Who do you want to visit?”
“Mr. Tandy, the shepherd,” I replied.
“Good,” agreed Philip. “I like Mr. Tandy. I'll come with you.”
I stopped suddenly, wondering how I could explain. Philip just walked on, watching a magpie.
“Philip,” I said slowly, “you can't come with me. You see, it's a secret, and I want to see Mr. Tandy alone. It's something you don't know about, and I've got to go by myself.”
It was Philip's turn to stop and stare. He turned right around and looked as if he thought he had had heard wrongly.
“But why?” he asked at last. “You always tell me your secrets. I always tell you mine. You shouldn't tell Mr. Tandy before me. I'm your brother, and he's only an old man.”
I could see he was upset, and I felt dreadful.
There was a long pause, and I did not know what to say.
“Oh, all right,” he said at last, trying to speak as if he didn't care. “I'll go on home. You'll find me in the orchard when you come.”
He turned and went on, and I followed rather miserably. We walked single file in silence as far as the stile, where the path split into two. One way led over the meadow toward home and one led up to the sheepfolds.
“Good-bye,” said Philip without looking around. “See you later.”
He walked slowly across the field with his hands in his pockets. He must have been very miserable indeed, for he was not even watching the sky for birds.
As I stood staring after his lonely little figure, I saw all in a flash—perhaps for the first time—what sort of a brother Philip had been to me. I remembered how seriously he had listened when I talked to him, how patiently he had joined in with my make-believe stories with my dolls, how quickly he would run back from school in case I should be missing him, and how faithfully he had stood by me when I was cross and bad tempered and punished! As I thought of all these things, I suddenly didn't want to have any secret at all that I could not share with Philip. Of course, I wanted to go on belonging to the Good Shepherd, but not by myself. Philip must belong, too, and then we could enjoy the secret together.
I ran down the hill as fast as my legs would carry me, shouting his name at the top of my voice. He turned around and waited for me, and even as I ran I could not help thinking how much nicer he was than me. I would have walked off in a bad mood and pretended not to hear.
I was quite out of breath when I reached him, and sort of fell against him to stop myself.
“Philip,” I gasped. “I didn't mean it at all. I don't want to have secrets without you, and I'll tell you everything always. Only, you see, there's a bit I don't understand and I can't tell you properly until I've asked Mr. Tandy. But then I shall know all about it and I'll tell you in the wigwam tomorrow and you can have it, too.”
The shadow passed at once from Philip's eyes, and his smile shone out again.
“It's all right,” he assured me. “I don't mind you going to tell Mr. Tandy, as long as you tell me afterward. But it will spoil everything if we don't tell each other all our secrets.”
I was so pleased to see him happy again that I flung my arms around his neck and kissed him. I had not done such a thing for a long time, and he looked a bit breathless and astonished, and glanced around the field to see that no one was looking.
I turned and ran back up the hill, but when I had gone halfway up I turned to look at Philip. He had his head thrown far back, watching birds. He had forgotten all about the quarrel.
I was very red in the face when I reached the sheep-folds because I had climbed the hill so fast. To my great relief, Mr. Tandy was there mending the gate. I ran straight over to him.
“Mr. Tandy,” I said at once, “I've come to tell you something. I've found out all about that story you read me, and I know that it means me, and that the Good Shepherd means Jesus.”
He stood there with his hammer in his hand, looking down at me with a look of real joy on his face.
“I'm really glad to hear it, little maid,” he said. “Maybe you'll tell me a bit more about it.”
“Oh, yes,” I replied, pulling him down beside me on the seat. I was so pleased to find someone who would believe me that I forgot to be shy. I told him everything—about running away, and Mr. Robinson, and the picture, and me belonging to the Shepherd.
Mr. Tandy listened carefully, and his wrinkled old face was bright with happiness.
“Thank God for that, Ruth,” he replied. “For if you belong to Him now, you'll belong to Him forever. No one can take you away from Him.”
“Mr. Tandy,” I asked, “are you one of His sheep?”
“Sure,” he answered. “I've been one of His sheep for almost fifty years.”
“Then, Mr. Tandy,” I went on eagerly, “have you ever heard His voice? It says His sheep hear His voice, but I've listened and listened, and He never says anything to me, and I do want to hear Him so badly.”
He thought for a long time before answering that question. Then he spoke very slowly.
“I'm going to call my sheep, Ruth,” he said. “When I call, take a look at them all, but especially notice those over by the hedge, and see the difference.”
I watched, fascinated, while he gave a low, clear call. Every sheep in the meadow lifted its head and came a step or two nearer, except for the group by the hedge. They went on feeding quietly as though nothing had happened.
“Why don't they answer?” I asked. “Can't they hear you?”
“They can hear me well enough,” answered the old man, “but they don't know my voice from all the others because they belonged to another shepherd who has been taken ill. They only joined my flock two days ago. But let them walk to the pastures with me for a week or two, and let me put them in my fold and put my hands on their heads and feed them, and they'll soon come to know my voice the same as the rest. Now, there are many voices speaking to your heart, Ruth, and you've only belonged to the Shepherd for a few days. So maybe you haven't learned to pick out His voice from all thos
e others, for it's only a still, small voice.”
“Tell me how I can start,” I begged.
“Well, it's like this,” he said at last, after another long pause. “Do you ever want to be a bad little girl?”
“Oh yes, often,” I replied. “Before I ran away, I used to lose my temper and be rude to Aunt Margaret nearly every day.”
“Well, then,” went on Mr. Tandy, “you listen to this. Next time you want to lose your temper, you remember there are two voices speaking to you. There's the voice of the enemy telling you to kick up a row and stamp your foot and all the rest of it. But if you hold back a minute and listen, maybe you'll hear another voice—a little, quiet-like voice—telling you to be gentle and to do as you're told, and that's the voice of the Shepherd. And if you learn to take notice of that voice, He'll speak again, and you'll find you're hearing Him all the time and everywhere. He talks to me out in these fields, and when I read my Bible He comes to me, and I know it isn't just a book of black-and-white print for clever people, but it's the voice of my Shepherd speaking to me.”
Drawn by his gentle voice, the sheep had come quite close and were standing near his knees, their gentle faces turned up toward him. When he stopped speaking, they moved away, cropping the grass.
I got to my feet and held out my hand. “Thank you very much, Mr. Tandy,” I said. “I'm going home now to listen, and I hope I shall soon want to get into a temper.”
He shook his head. “Don't you wish any such thing,” he warned me. “And don't you try it alone. Remember, it is only the Good Shepherd who can stop you from doing wrong.”
Philip was not in the orchard, so I went to look for him indoors. Rather to my dismay, I heard voices in the dining room. They had already started tea, and I was late. We were not allowed to be late for tea, so I stepped into the room rather guiltily and made for my seat with a worried glance at Aunt Margaret. She was looking extremely cross.
“Ruth,” she said sharply, “you're late again and I'm not going to have it. Sit down and eat your tea in silence. And you're not to have a chocolate biscuit.”
Now this was a dreadful punishment, because I loved chocolate biscuits and we hardly ever had them. I gave a little stamp with my foot and threw back my head. All my happiness disappeared and a great rush of angry words seemed to come springing up out of my heart all ready to tumble out of my mouth. In fact, I had actually opened my mouth when I suddenly remembered!
If I got in a rage now, I wouldn't be able to listen to the little, quiet voice of the Good Shepherd, and if I didn't listen now perhaps He wouldn't speak to me again.
It was so difficult to stop those angry words coming out that I had to clap my hand over my mouth to keep them in. And so I stood in the middle of the room listening while my aunt and Philip stared at me in the greatest surprise.
“What is the matter?” asked my aunt coldly. “Have you bitten your tongue?”
Following the Shepherd meant being like Him. If I was going to be like Him I must stop stamping, shouting, answering back, and sulking, because Jesus had never done any of those things. “Help me to follow you,” I whispered in my heart. “Stop me from being angry, quick.”
I drew a great big breath and put my hand back in my pocket. Then I sat down in my chair without saying anything, for my anger was all going away. Auntie still continued to stare at me, but I went on munching my bread and butter in silence. I did not look at the chocolate biscuits, because I was afraid the sight of them might make me angry again.
We were all very quiet for the rest of tea, and when it was finished, Aunt Margaret said that as it was my first day up after my cold, I had better go straight to bed. I did not mind at all, for I had such a lot to think about that I wanted to be alone. I lay in bed with my arms thrown above my head on the pillow, looking at the stars and listening to the birds twittering till I fell asleep.
I was perfectly happy because two wonderful things had happened that day for the very first time. I had heard the voice of the Good Shepherd, and I had kept my temper.
The Accident
We meant to go straight to the wigwam next day and talk about the secret, but just as we climbed over the stile, Terry popped up out of the ditch like a rabbit and said he'd come to spend the morning with us. We settled down on the bank to make plans.
As a matter of fact, Terry had already made all the plans, and we were just meant to follow them. He had found a high ash tree with a wood pigeon's nest at the top, and if Philip wanted to see a wood pigeon's egg he'd better come along right now because there were two beauties. It was an ash tree with a fork. Terry's plan was to collect some branches and bits of wood and make a sort of platform opposite, where we could sit and watch the eggs hatch.
We were thrilled with the idea and went scuttling off single file through the wood. The tree Terry had told us about was quite a long way away, across the stream in the valley, and some way in among the larches that grew on the farther side.
It was well off the usual track, and the brambles and nettles grew thick around there. I followed the boys as best as I could, but even so, my bare legs got dreadfully scratched and were as red as unripe blackberries when I finally caught up with them. I sat down on the tree root and began mopping up the scratches with my handkerchief.
“Sorry,” said Philip. “I forgot your legs were shorter than ours for jumping. If you keep up on the way home, I'll tread the brambles down for you.”
Terry stared at my bleeding knees. “She's a brave little kid, ain't she?” he said, and I felt as if I'd been awarded a medal. I would willingly have walked through brambles and nettles to have earned such praise.
Terry had no time to waste. He crouched like a small panther and then leapt for the nearest branch of the ash. He caught hold with one hand and dragged himself up, the muscles rippling all over his tight little body.
“Now,” he yelled, lying across the branch, “help Ruth up and I'll catch hold!”
Philip heaved me up on his shoulders, and Terry seized my wrists and pulled until I was able to clutch the branch. I gave a great wriggle, more or less turned myself inside out, and arrived panting beside him. Philip gave two great leaps, but fell backward. On the third jump he caught hold of the branch and dragged himself up, too. So we sat dangling our legs like three happy monkeys, and we shared our biscuits with Terry, who always took it for granted that my aunt put in some for him, too, and always ate much more than his share. But we didn't really mind, for we had decided long ago that Terry's mother must have starved him at home, as no one but a starving child could eat so hungrily, just like a wolf.
“Come on,” said Terry, gulping down the last mouthful. “We'll nip up and take a look at her.”
Off he went like a sailor on a rope, while Philip and I followed more slowly. The nest was on a sort of platform of twigs woven together, and as we got nearer to it we could hear the nervous murmur of the pigeon deep in her throat. Then suddenly there was a whirr of beautiful pearl-grey wings, and the bird flew up and settled on the topmost twig of the opposite fork, where she sat looking down at us and her nest.
It was such an untidy nest that I wondered how it was that the eggs didn't roll out—just a few loosely woven sticks with some moss stuffed in the holes. But the eggs were burning hot and well cared for, and the mother was very worried about them. Terry leaned back and stared at her.
“Nice spot to watch them eggs from,” he remarked coolly. “I'm going up there myself.”
“You couldn't,” protested Philip. “The branches wouldn't hold you. Why, they'll hardly hold up the pigeon.”
But Terry was a rather boastful boy. If anyone said you couldn't do anything, he immediately had to do it to show that he could. So he just said, “Go on. I'll show you,” and swung himself across to the opposite fork.
Philip and I watched in fascinated silence as the thin, agile little boy climbed higher and higher. The pigeon saw him coming, flew up softly, and landed back with half-spread wings on her nest. We could o
nly watch Terry. We had seen him do such daring and almost impossible things before, but this beat them all. Already, the thin, grey branches were bending outward under his weight.
“Stop,” called Philip in a rather husky voice. But Terry took no notice. Instead, his laugh came ringing back to us through the leaves, and still he climbed—only he was climbing very carefully now.
“He got there,” breathed Philip, and indeed he had. He was standing right out against the sky, clinging to a weak branch. The wind that moved lazily over the treetops had caught his hair and blown it back from his face, and his dark, starry eyes were alight with laughter and triumph. When I think of Terry now, that is how I like to remember him, because it was the last time that we, or anyone else, ever saw him well and strong.
I can hardly write of what happened next. Philip and I have never spoken of it to each other, and I know we both never try to think of it, although I shall remember it all my life. We kept begging Terry to come down, but he took no notice of us and began to swing to and fro. Twice the branch bowed with him, but the third time it snapped. Terry was flung outward into space.
He gave one shrill scream that shattered the silence of the summer woods and haunted me in the night for many weeks to come. Then we heard his light body crashing through the leaves and twigs, which mercifully partly broke his fall. Then came a sickening thud—and then silence.
I don't know to this day how Philip and I escaped falling after him and breaking our necks, we swung down that tree at such a speed. Even so, Philip reached the bottom long before I did. But I got there somehow and dropped onto the ground, gasping and sobbing, and lay trembling in a heap with my face hidden in the moss. I dared not look at Terry.
Philip went down on his knees beside him and came to the conclusion that Terry was still breathing. He came over to me at last and put his arm around me.
“Ruth,” he said in a voice that was shaky and fearful, “I'm not quite sure, but I think he's alive. We can't possibly carry him. We shall have to fetch some men and a doctor, and I think I'd better go, because I can run much faster than you and I'm not crying so much. But, Ruth, we can't leave him alone, because he might wake up and be frightened and want someone. So would you mind staying with him, and I'll come back as quick as I can?”
Patricia St John Series Page 17