804 
bricks T had been inveigled into purchasing in maturer 
years, that we now gazed upon the glorious sweep of 
Farewell Gap. We had watched the Sierra Club as 
they crept like insects slowly up its steep side, until 
standing for a moment in bold relief against the sky. 
they had gradually faded from our view, and straight- 
way decided lhat our next move should be in that di- 
rection. Forked Deer. 
[to be CONCX,LrDED.l 
O'Hara and His Sheep. 
At the mention of the word shepherd a score of pleas- 
ing scenes arise before the mind's eye— fresh green pas- 
tures, dotted with sheep; cool leafy woods, melodious 
with the chants of birds; murmuring streams, or placid 
pools, reflecting their margins like a mirror; bright sun- 
shine, or mayhap a gentle shower, whose drops seem to 
turn to buttercups and daisies, etc. Not only this, but a 
score or more of poetic legends or allusions arise to the 
memory and unconsciously we begin to quote: 
"When shepherds pipe on oaten .straws 
And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks." 
Or again : 
•'For, 01 the shepherd's life is jolly, 
Free from strife and melancholy." 
Or again: 
"And there he fed his fleecy flocks 
Remote from care— from jars and shocks; 
And played upon his pipe all day 
Blithe as a bird in merry May. 
Or yet again (from Spenser's quaint and delightful 
"Shepherd's Calendar") : 
"Now leave, ye shepherd boys, your merry glee, 
My Muse is hoarse and wearie of this stoilnde; 
Sere will I hang my pype upon this tree 
Was never pype of reede did better sounde. 
#*•**♦* 
"Gather together, ye my little flocke— 
My little flocke that was to nie so liele; 
Let me, ah! lette mc in your foldes ye lock 
Ere the brerae winter breede ye greater griefe. 
*♦*■»*** 
"Adieu, delightes, that lulled me asleepe; 
Adieu, my deare, whose love I bought so dearc; 
Adieu, my little Lambes and loved sheepe; 
Adieu, ye Woodes. that oft my witnesse were; 
Adieu, good Hobbinoll, that was so true; 
Tell Rosalind her Colin bids her adieu." 
But enottgh. My object here is not to make an 
anthology of pastoral verse. ^ 
There seems reason to believe that the shepherd s life 
has been a little idealized by the poets. In ancient times, 
-when the shepherdess was in vogue, it was no doubt 
invested with considerable romance, but modern material- 
ism has shorn it of this. Nevertheless, it remains a 
goodly life— fresh, free, devoid of care. But the man 
must be suited to it, or, in other words, miist be native 
and to the manner born. I have such a one in mind as I 
write, and his name is not Daphnis, nor Strephon, nor 
Thyrsis, but simply O'Hara. 
Before I describe him it will be proper to inform the 
reader that the Department of Public Parks of the city 
of New York, with an eye at once to economy and 
sesthetics, has provided two flocks of sheep— one for Cen- 
tral, and the other for Prospect Park. These, while 
securing a certain revenue, fit into the landscape very 
gracefully, rounding out, so to speak, its pastoral charac- 
ter. The department has also of course provided two 
shepherds, and these, with a judiciousness which does the 
department great credit, have always, so far as I know, 
been selected from the ancient race of shepherds beyond 
the sea. ^mtt 
I use the latter term advisedly. Now take O Hara. 
He comes, as he has assured me, of ten and perhaps 
twenty or a hundred generations of shepherds. What is 
the consequence? He not only understands and sym- 
pathizes with his sheep, but he harmonizes with them 
almost, as much as they harmonize with the landscape. 
He may, indeed, be said to belong to the flock, and this 
is very far from implying a disparagement. (I opme if 
flocks 'of wolves were kept it would be much easier to 
find a man to harmonize with them than with a flock of 
sheep.) ... r ' T 1 
1 first met O'Hara on a fine bright afternoon in July. 
He was guarding his flock in the long meadow of Pros- 
pect Park. He was dressed in a loose canvas suit and 
an old straw hat. and leant upon his crook with a degag6 
air. As I approached him his air changed to one ot 
attention, and I could not help noticing that he eyed me 
a little suspiciously. The fact is, O'Hara is used to being 
'•guyed" by a certain class of city nmnies who Uimk that a 
farmer or a shepherd or any one of that ilk is a fit butt 
for ridicule or "funnv," as they express it. Well, seeing 
that I was eyed with suspicion, I assumed my niost con- 
ciliatory mien and saluted the guardian of the flock. 
My salute was returned 'civilly, but coldly, ihis would 
have discouraged some, but I knew my man, or at least 
thought I did. So I held my ground and began to praise 
the flock and talk of washing and shearing and other 
matters connected with the care of sheep. 
In an instant my auditor's attitude changed. He 
turned toward me and regarded me with the utmost mter- 
''You Avere brought up in the country, thin, sir?" 
"Indeed 1 was— thank heaven!" I replied. "And I'm 
only sorry that I didn't stay there and be a shepherd. 
O'Hara' s blue eyes shone with ioyful surprise, and every 
vestige of distrust vanished from his hale countenance. 
I had won. And I confess I felt pleased immensely at 
the result of my diplomacy. 
A reflection occurs to me here. How often the man 
who complains of gruffness or rudeness has himself only 
to blame? No one, however humble, likes to be ap- 
proached in an arrogant or a patronizing way, and if 
he is free to resetit it, depend upon it he will. On the 
other hand, a considerate mode of address will almost 
invariably insure civility and good will. Let sportsmen 
and others who have to do with guides, etc., make a 
note of this. , > ^ c ■ ,.i xj i >» 
"I have a hundred and mnety-five m the flock sir 
said O Hara, becoming open and cominumcative. bouth- 
downs they call thim here, but m the old country wft 
F^OREST AND _ STREAM. 
called thim mountain sheep. Yes, sir, they keep me 
movin', but Tommie here" (indicating a lad of seven or 
eight— his son), "and the dogs is a great help to me. It's 
aisy, now, though, compared to the lambin' saison. Thin 
i had to hustle. No. sir, since the lambs came I don't 
drive thim into the fold at night (it's too small), but up 
on the hill beyant there under the trees. Whin do I take 
thim out? At 5 in the mornin', sir. Oh, that's not early. 
Sure it's only laziness to be sleepin' up till 7 or 8 as they 
do in this country. I was always an early riser, sir. You 
see, I was brought up to it. 1^ can't sleep after 5. Were 
you ever up early, sir — ni'anin' no offince. Sure it's the 
grandest time of the day— the dew on the grass and the 
birds singin' and everythin' smellin' so fresh and sweet! 
Did I ever play a pipe? No, sir, but I smoke a pipe, if 
that's what you mane. Hi, boy ! Stand back there 1 ' 
[Oct. 18, 100^. 
I 
o'hara, tommie and the dogs. 
While we were talking, a number of women and chil- 
dren had gathered about the sheep and one lusty lad 
conceived the idea of having a ride, and was in the act 
of mounting when O'Hara broke into his sudden ex- 
clamation. Some of the women had infants in their arms, 
and these they would hqld down, urging them to stroke 
and pet the lambs. The infants at first would hold back 
as if in the presence of so many lions, but ultimately the 
mother's words of encouragement prevailed. ^ It was all 
very pretty, but not much to the mind of O'Hara, who 
was jealous of his flock. Even less to his mind were 
some of the questions which were put to him, and which 
betrayed a woeful ignorance of pastoral life. To most of 
these' he turned a deaf and scornful ear. 
"Herdin' here, sir, is not what it is m the old country, 
ht said, plaintively. "There you have no one to bother 
THE SHEEP. 
you, and you haven't to be watchin' the sheep all the 
time." . , , , 
"Won't you tell me something of your life m the old 
country?" I said. 
"Wait till the crowd goes home, sir," he answered, 
"and I've got the flock rounded up for the night.'' 
So I hung about and took some snap shots, longmg for 
the crowd to go home. Toward 6 o'clock they began to 
melt away, and in a httle while there was hardly a soul 
to be seen. Then O'Hara sent his dogs about and the 
sheep went scurrving in the direction of the hill, the 
shepherd somewhat laboriously but valiantly trying to 
keep up with them. When they were pretty well bunched 
O'Hara shouted to Prince, one of the dogs, and that 
intelligent creature instantly darted to the head pf the 
flock and kept it from ascending the hill. The object of 
this maneuver was manifest when O'Hara, with his faith- 
ful aide, Tommie, came up. 
Leaving Tommie and Prince at the bottom of the hill, 
O'Hara ascended for about twenty yards and then posting 
himself at the edge of a well-beaten path and leaning on 
his crook, he cried: "Let thim come." 
Tommie and Prince formed a gap, so to speak, and 
the sheep urged by Topsey, the second dog, began to 
file through. Up the hill by the beaten path they rushed, 
and when they reached the shepherd, out went his right 
hand and he began to beat time, as it were. O'Hara was 
counting. The object of this was not very clear to me, as 
I failed to see how any of the sheep could be lost, and I 
suspected it was mere force of habit, which indeed it 
proved to be. At first the counting was easy enough, but 
presently the stream of sheep grew thicker, and then the 
counter was evidently in trouble. Quicker and quicker 
went the hand, till finally it was waved wildly aloft, and 
then fell down with a gesture of despair. Facing about, 
O'Hara shouted to Tommie and wanted to know in vigor- 
ous language why he had let the sheep come so fast. 
Tommie (who had been watching the writer more in- 
tently than the sheep), proceeded to defend himself, but 
was ordered to be silent and prepare for another count. 
So the dogs were sent up the hill after the sheep, which 
came down in a hurry, and then a gap was formed as 
before and Tommie being more circumspect this _ time, 
O'Hara was enabled to make his count. A smile ot 
satisfaction was on his face when I accosted him. 
"Well," I asked, "have you got them all?" 
"Yes, sir," he said, "a hundred and ninety-five. I d 
be unaisy if I didn't count them, for I always counted my 
sheep, night and mornin'," 
I went up the hill where the flock, gathered together 
beneath the thickly spreading trees, was preparing to pass 
the night, with a great bleating of lambs seeking their 
mothers and vice versa. After a while the bleating ceased 
and the flock for the most part was lying down. Their 
breathing, mingled with the whispering of the leaves, was 
the only sound to be heard. To accentuate the peace c 
the scene, there, twenty feet away, on the other side of 
rustic paling, was the old graveyard where ilj 
"Each in his narrow cell forever laid 
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep." 
When I came down the hill I found O'Hara seated on a 
rock smoking his pipe pensively, with the dogs at his 
feet, I stretched myself opposite him on the grass and 
lighting my own pipe reminded him of his promise to 
tell me something of his life in the old country. 
He continued to smoke for a while in silence,_ with the 
expression of one whose memory was working, then 
removed his pipe, wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his 
coat, and spoke substantially as follows: 
"I was born, sir, in the County Roscommon, and as 
long as I can remimber I had charge of sheep. My 
master was one Mr. O'Conor, of Dundermott, a fine man, 
the Lord have mercy on him! He owned hundreds of 
acres and I couldn't tell you how many sheep, but we 
used to sind thousands of thim to Ballinasloe every year. 
It came natural to me to look after the poor craytures, so 
helpless and like childer, sir. In the winter the life was 
a trifle hard, for the weather was wet and cold, but not 
the murderin' cold we have here. Often I lay at the back 
of a ditch all night, with the wind and the rain whistlin' 
through the bushes. But whin the summer came — ah! 
thin it was different. Sure nothing could be pleasanter, 
sir. To see the fields covered with buttercups and daisies 
and to hear the larks in the mornin' and the corncrakes at 
night. (Ah ! the corncrakes ! Often I he awake thinkm 
I hear thim.) And thin the washin' and the shearin'— 
what fun and divarsion! Heighho! Sure we have 
nothing like it here, sir. Well, I grew up without know- 
in' it, as I may say, but thin a change came. The master 
died, and the eldest son (the second eldest became the 
famous Roosian Ambassador, Sir Nicholas)— the eldest 
son bein' what we call here a great sport, ordered myj 
father to get rid of some of his dogs for why they dis- 
turbed the game. My father loved his dogs, and by the^ 
same token had a will of his own. 'Mr. O'Conor,' says 
he, 'wherever my dogs is there I will be I' So they parted. 
My father was broken-hearted at leavin' the old home, 
and in throth so were we all. Howsomedeavor, we found 
a new place under Lord John Browne, but my father 
could never warm to it, and faded away and died, sir ! 
The speaker paused for a few minutes and then re- 
sumed: . . J 
"My eldest brother thin got married, but as it turned 
out, the wife began to wear the breeches. As they say 
here, she tried to boss the whole show. But she couldnt 
boss me, so after we'd had a few rows, for peace sake I| 
left the house. . , , , 
"I drifted about for a while, not much cann what b; 
came of me, till by chance I met myxoid friend, Ten u 
Mealish, who was home on a visit from America. He 
told me all about the wonders of New York and how he 
owned a saloon and expected to be an alderman and 
maybe mayor some day. I listened to him till sure my 
head was turned, sir. 'Tom,' says I, 'after hearm all 
you've told me, I'm afeard I never can contint myself 
here.' 'And why should you ?' says he. 'Why not come 
back with me?' 'But the passage money, Tom?' says 
'Oh, that'll be all right,' says he. 'I'll advance it to yo i 
Pat, and you can pav me back or not as yxDU have a mind 
to,' Sure he was the ginerous soul ! Ah ! but in throth, i 
sir, I was sorry to leave the old country— and sorry tol 
leave my dog Rover, that shared all my troubles. And 
do you know, sir, he seemed to know that I was goin' 
for he did nothing but cry about the fields all night for a | 
week before I left. Oh, he was the wise dog ! Well, sir j 
at length I said good bye to all,^ fearin' it was for thf 
last time, and I'm fearin' so still." . ' 
O'Hara paused again, and I saw two great tears begir 
to trickle down his weather-beaten face. I could no 
trust myself to gaze upon a picture of such genuine emo i 
tion and turned away my head, l( 
"But God has been good to me here, sir, he said, rc 
suming, "to give me the care of sheep, for that is all 
know anything about, and I don't want to know abou 
anything else, for as I said before, sir, I love nr 
sheep and feel like a kind of father to the poor cr: 
tures." 
"O'Hara," I said, when he had done, "you are a t; 
shepherd, and I'm sure your sheep return your love," 
"Well, sir," he answered, with a humorous twinkle n 
hi-^ blue' eyes (and the quick transition of his mood i 
tokened the true Celt), "I think they'd vote for me if tl. 
could But I'm not wantin' to turn politician.' 
"That's right," I said, "Don't. A shepherd is a hap 
pier man than any politician in Ae land— happier than 
president — happier than a king," 
The woods were growing black agamst the tawny we 
ern sky and the stars began to glimmer through >- 
sultry midsummer haze, I glanced toward the she. 
They were all lying down now, peacefully chewing n 
cud. or with heads outstretched asleep, I divined th 
the shepherd would fain be following their example, s-j 
got up and wished him good night, 
"Good night, sir. kindly," said O'Hara, m a tone 
kindly that \\ is still lingering in my ears. 
Francis Moonak 
