Three Bags Full A Sheep Detective Story

1 Othello Boldly Grazes Past "He was healthy yesterday," said Maude. Her ears twitched nervously. "That doesn't mean anything," pointed out Sir Ritchfield, the oldest ram in the flock. "He didn't die of an illness. Spades are not an illness." The shepherd was lying in the green Irish grass beside the hay barn, not far from the path through the fields. He didn't move. A single crow had settled on his woolly Norwegian sweater and was studying his internal arrangements with professional interest. Beside the crow sat a very happy rabbit. Rather farther off, close to the edge of the cliff, the sheep were holding a meeting. They had kept calm that morning when they found their shepherd lying there so unusually cold and lifeless, and were extremely proud of it. In the first flush of alarm, naturally there had been a few frantic cries of "Who's going to bring us hay now?" and "A wolf! There's a wolf about!," but Miss Maple had been quick to quell any panic. She explained that here on the greenest, richest pasture in all Ireland only idiots would eat hay in midsummer anyway, and even the most sophisticated wolves didn't drive spades through the bodies of their victims. For such a tool was undoubtedly sticking out of the shepherd's insides, which were now wet with dew. Miss Maple was the cleverest sheep in all Glennkill. Some even claimed that she was the cleverest sheep in the world, but no one could prove it. There was in fact an annual Smartest Sheep in Glennkill contest, but Maple's extraordinary intelligence showed in the very fact that she did not take part in such competitions. The winner, after being crowned with a wreath of shamrock (which it was then allowed to eat), spent several days touring the pubs of the neighboring villages, and was constantly expected to perform the trick that had erroneously won it the title, eyes streaming as it blinked through clouds of tobacco smoke, with the customers pouring Guinness down its throat until it couldn't stand up properly. Furthermore, from then on the winning sheep's shepherd held it responsible for each and every prank played out at pasture, since the cleverest animal was always going to be the prime suspect. George Glenn would never again hold any sheep responsible for anything. He lay impaled on the ground beside the path while his sheep wondered what to do next. They were standing on the cliffs between the wateryblue sky and the skyblue sea, where they couldn't smell the blood, and they did feel responsible. "He wasn't a specially good shepherd," said Heather, who was still not much more than a lamb and still bore George a grudge for docking her beautiful tail at the end of last winter. "Exactly!" said Cloud, the woolliest and most magnificent sheep ever seen. "He didn't appreciate our work. Norwegian sheep do it better, he said! Norwegian sheep give more wool! He had sweaters made of foreign wool sent from Norwayit's a disgrace! What other shepherd would insult his own flock like that?" There ensued a discussion of some length between Heather, Cloud, and Mopple the Whale. Mopple the Whale insisted that you judged a shepherd's merits by the quantity and quality of the fodder he provided, and in this respect there was nothing, nothing whatsoever, to be said against George Glenn. Finally they agreed that a good shepherd was one who never docked the lambs' tails; didn't keep a sheepdog; provided good fodder and plenty of it, particularly bread and sugar but healthy things too like green stuff, concentrated feed, and mangelwurzels (for tSwann, Leonie is the author of 'Three Bags Full A Sheep Detective Story', published 2007 under ISBN 9780385521116 and ISBN 0385521111.