Once upon a time there was a shepherd who had a hundred sheep. He loved every one and knew every one by name. Every morning he opened wide the gate of the little sheepfold, where they stayed at night, and gently calling to the sheep, led them up the hillside where they could find plenty of fresh, sweet grass to eat. They must have water to drink, too. They were afraid to drink from the streams where the water ran fast, and tumbled and bubbled against the stones, so the shepherd would lead them to some quiet little pool where the water was still and they could drink and not be afraid.

All day the shepherd went before them, tapping his stick on the ground to feel for any holes hidden in the long grass, in which the little sheep might catch their feet and stumble, and also scare away any big black snakes that might try to bite at their feet as they passed. There were great, steep places, too, over which the sheep might fall and get hurt, and when they wandered near these places the shepherd called gently and they came running to his side. Often a baby sheep, called a lamb, would fall by the way and get hurt, or grow tired from the long climb up the hill, and the shepherd would pick it up and carry it gently in his arms.

One day, as the sheep and the little lambs were feeding on the hillside, the wind began to blow, great black clouds rolled across the sky, and suddenly big drops of rain began to fall. A bad storm was coming, the shepherd knew, and he must get his sheep home before they became frightened. “Little sheep, little sheep,” he called gently. Running along, tumbling over one another, the sheep and little lambs came, and down the hill they followed the shepherd. As they reached the door of the sheepfold, he stepped to one side to let them pass through, counting them as they went. “One, two, three, four,” the shepherd counted, laying his hand gently on each little woolly back, as the sheep pattered by— “ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine”—but that was all.

One little sheep was missing. One little sheep had been left behind in the cold and rain. Just then a big, white mother sheep came close to the shepherd and, looking up into his face, said “Baa, Baa.” “What is it Snowball?” the shepherd asked. “What troubles you?” “Baa, baa,” said the mother sheep again. Then the shepherd knew. “Is it Blackie, Snowball? Is it your baby that is lost?” Yes, it was Blackie. The little black lamb, Snowball’s baby, was not in the sheepfold with the others. He must have been left behind in the storm. Perhaps he had not listened to the shepherd’s voice and had wandered away and fallen into some deep hole.

Outside the wind blew, and the rain fell faster and faster, but the shepherd buttoned his overcoat around him and, lighting a lantern so that he could find the path better, opened the gate of his sheepfold, and went up the hill in the storm to find the little lost lamb. “Little sheep, little sheep,” he called as he climbed over the hill, swinging his lantern. But no little sheep answered his call. Up the hill he went. He stumbled and fell in the darkness, and his hands and feet were cut on the sharp stones. He was cold and wet and tired, but still he walked on, calling softly, “Blackie, little sheep, little sheep.” What was that he heard? Through the noise of the wind and the rain, away off somewhere the shepherd heard a very faint little “Baa.”

Oh, how gladly he ran over the stones to find the little lost lamb! “Little sheep, little sheep,” he called. “Baa” came the little cry again, nearer this time. There, caught fast in a deep hole, the lamb looked up into the shepherd’s face. “Baa,” he said. One little leg was broken and he could not move it. Gently the shepherd lifted the little lamb in his arms and, wrapping his overcoat around him, he started to find his way back to the sheepfold in the storm. The shepherd did not know that his face had been cut when he fell on the sharp stones and was bleeding. He did not know that his shoes had been torn from his feet. He knew only that he had found the little sheep he loved, and he was very, very glad.

As he opened the gate of the sheepfold, all was still. The sheep were fast asleep in the hay. Only Snowball was watching. She ran to the shepherd’s side, and he put little Blackie down beside her. Then tenderly he carried the little lamb into the house, where he bound up the broken leg and gave him some warm milk to drink. After a while the little lamb grew well again and could go up the hill each morning with the others to eat the fresh, sweet grass, but he always kept very close to the shepherd and ran quickly when he heard him calling.