The little one-room schoolhousc among the redwoods Opened its door, a dozen children ran out And saw on the narrow road between the dense trees A persona girl by the long light-colored hair: The torn brown cloak that she wore might be a man's Or woman's eitherwalking hastily northward Among a huddle of sheep. Her thin young face Seemed joyful, and lighted from inside, and formed Too finely to be so wind-burnt. As she went forward One or another of the trotting sheep would turn Its head to look at her face, and one would press Its matted shoulder against her moving thigh. The schoolchildren stood laughing and shouting together. 'Who's that? ' 'Clare Walker,' they said, 'down from the hill. She'd fifty sheep and now she's got eight, nine, Ten: what have you done with all the others, Clare Walker? ' The joy that had lived in her face died, she yet Went on as if she were deaf, with forward eyes And lifted head, but the delicate lips moving. The jeering children ran in behind her, and the sheep Drew nervously on before, except the old ram, That close at her side dipped his coiled horns a little But neither looked back nor edged forward. An urchin shouted 'You killed your daddy, why don't you kill your sheep? ' And a fat girl, 'Oh where's your lover, Clare Walker? He didn't want you after all.' The patriarch ram That walked beside her wore a greasy brown bundle Tied on his back with cords in the felt of wool, And one of the little boys, running by, snatched at it So that it fell. Clare bent to gather it fallen, And tears dropped from her eyes. She offered no threat With the bent staff of rosy-barked madrone-wood That lay in her hand, but said 'Oh please, Oh please,' As meek as one of her ewes. An eight-year-old girl Shrilled, 'Whistle for the dogs, make her run like a cat, Call your dog, Charlie Geary! ' But a brown-skinned Spanish-Indian boy came forward and said, 'You let her alone. They'll not hurt you, Clare Walker. Don't cry, I'll walk beside you.' She thanked him, still crying. Four of the children, who lived southward, turned back; The rest followed more quietly. The black-haired boy Said gently, 'Remember to keep in the road, Clare Walker. There's enough grass. The ranchers will sick their dogs on you If you go into the pastures, because their cows Won't eat where the sheep have passed; but you can walk Into the woods.' She answered, 'You're kind, you're kind. Oh yes, I always remember.' The small road dipped Under the river when they'd come down the hill, A shallow mountain river that Clare skipped over By stone after stone, the sheep wading beside her. The friendly boy went south to the farm on the hill, 'good-by, good-by,' and Clare with her little flock Kept northward among great trees like towers in the river- valley. Her sheep sidled the path, snifHng The bitter sorrel, lavender-flowering in shade, and the withered ferns. Toward evening they found a hollow Of autumn grass. II Clare laughed and was glad, she undid the bundle from the ram's back And found in the folds a battered metal cup and a broken loaf. She shared her bread with the sheep, A morsel for each, and prettily laughing Pushed down the reaching faces. 'Piggies, eat grass. Leave me the crust, Tiny, I can't eat grass. Nosie, keep off. Here Frannie, here Frannie.' One of the ewes came close and stood to be milked, Clare stroked The little udders and drank when the cup filled, and filled it again and drank, dividing her crust With the milch ewe; the flock wandered the glade, nibbling white grass. There was only one lamb among them, The others had died in the spring storm. The light in the glade suddenly increased and changed, the hill High eastward began to shine and be rosy-colored, and bathed in so clear a light that up the bare hill Each clump of yucca stood like a star, bristling sharp rays; while westward the spires of the giant wood Were strangely tall and intensely dark on the layered colors of the winter sundown; their blunt points touched The high tender blue, their heads were backed by the amber, the thick-branched columns Crossed flaming rose. Then Clare with the flush Of the solemn and glad sky on her face went lightly down to the river to wash her cup; and the flock Fed on a moment before they looked up and missed her. The ewe called Frannie had gone with Clare, and the others Heard Frannie' s hooves on the crisp oak-leaves at the edge of the glade. They followed, bleating, and found their mistress On the brink of the stream, in the clear gloom of the wood, and nipped the cresses from the water. Thence all returning Lay down together in the glade, but Clare among them Sat combing her hair, with a gap-toothed comb brought from the bundle. The evening deepened, the thick blonde strands Hissed in the comb and glimmered in the brown twilight, Clare began weeping, full of sorrow for no reason As she had been full of happiness before. She braided her hair and pillowed her head on the bundle; she heard The sheep breathing about her and felt the warmth of their bodies, through the heavy fleeces. In the night she moaned And bolted upright. 'Oh come, come, Come Fern, come Frannie, Leader and Saul and Tiny, We have to go on,' she whispered, sobbing with fear, and stood With a glimmer in her hair among the sheep rising. The halved moon had arisen clear of the hill, And touched her hair, and the hollow, in the mist from the river, was a lake of whiteness. Clare stood wreathed with her flock And stared at the dark towers of the wood, the dream faded away from her mind, she sighed and fondled The frightened foreheads. 'Lie down, lie down darlings, we can't escape it.' But after that they were restless And heard noises in the night nil dawn. They rose in the quivering Pale clearness before daylight, Clare milked her ewe, The others feeding drifted across the glade Like little clouds at sunrise wandering apart; She lifted up the madrone-wood staff and called them. 'Fay, Fern, Oh Frannie. Come Saul. Leader and Tiny and Nosie, we have to go on.' They went to the stream and then returned to the road And very slowly went north, nibbling the margin Bushes and grass, tracking the tender dust With numberless prints of oblique crossings and driftings. They came to Fogler's place and two ruffian dogs Flew over the fence: Clare screaming 'Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh,' An inarticulate wildbird cry, brandishing The staff but never striking, stood out against them, That dashed by her, and the packed and trembling ball Of fleeces rolling into the wood was broken. The sheep might have been torn there, some ewe or the lamb Against the great foundations of the trees, but Fogler Ran shouting over the road after his dogs And drove them home. Clare gathered her flock, the sobbing Throats and the tired eyes, 'Fay, Fern, Oh Frannie, Come Leader, come little Hornie, come Saul'; and Fogler: 'You ought to get a good dog to help take care of them.' He eyed curiously her thin young face, Pale parted lips cracked by the sun and wind, And then the thin bare ankles and broken shoes. 'Are you Clare Walker? I heard that you'd gone away: But you're Clare Walker, aren't you? ' 'We had a dog,' She said, 'a long time ago but he went away. There, Nosie. Poor Frannie. There. These poor things Can find their food, but what could I keep a dog with? But that was some years ago.' He said, 'Are these all? They're all gathered? I heard you'd thirty or forty.' Then hastily, for he saw the long hazel eyes Filling with tears, 'Where are you going, Clare Walker? Because I think it will rain in a week or two, You can't sleep out then.' She answered with a little shudder, 'Wherever I go this winter will be all right. I'm going somewhere next April.' Fogler stood rubbing His short black beard, then dropped his hand to scratch The ram's forehead by the horns but Saul drew away. And Fogler said: 'You're too young and too pretty To wander around the country like this. I'd ask you to come here when it rains, but my wife... And how could I keep the sheep