"Let the lad go," said his old grandfather. "When I was no older than
he I watched my father's flock."
Jean's father said the same thing, so the mother made haste to get the
little boy ready.
"Eat your dinner when the shadows lie straight across the grass," she
said as she kissed him good-bye.
"And keep the sheep from the forest paths," called his sick father.
"And watch, for it is when the shepherd is not watching that the wolf
comes to the flock," said the old grandfather.
"Never fear," said little Jean. "The wolf shall not have any of my
white lambs."
They were white sheep and black sheep and frolicsome lambs in the
shepherd's flock, and each one had a name of its own. There was
Babbette, and Nannette, and Pierrot, and Jeannot,--I cannot tell them
all, but Jean knew every name.
"Come, Bettine and Marie. Come, Pierrot and Croisette. Come, pretty
ones all," he called as he led them from the fold that day. "I will
carry you to the meadows where the daisies grow."
"Baa," answered the sheep, well satisfied, as they followed him down
the king's highway, and over the hill to the pasture lands.
The other shepherds were already there with their flocks, so Jean was
not lonely. He watered his sheep at the dancing brook that ran through
the flowers, and led them along its shady banks to feed in the sunny
fields beyond, and not one lambkin strayed from his care to the forest
paths.
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