One Smart Sheep Read online

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  On Atwood Hill

  Neighbors

  Winter Coming

  What Wilson Saw

  What Tippy Saw

  What Abigail Did Not See

  What Tippy Showed Abigail

  What Would Tippy Do?

  High and Low

  Wilson’s Leap

  Sniffing Around

  What Wilson Remembered

  Where Is Wilson?

  By the Woodstove

  Read More from Gary D. Schmidt

  Read the Sydney & Taylor Series

  About the Authors

  About the Illustrator

  Connect on Social Media

  Clarion Books

  3 Park Avenue

  New York, New York 10016

  Text copyright © 2021 by Gary D. Schmidt

  Illustrations copyright © 2021 by Jane Manning

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

  Clarion Books is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

  hmhbooks.com

  The illustrations in this book were done in Watercolor and pencil on Lanaquarelle watercolor paper.

  Cover design by Kaitlin Yang

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  ISBN 978-0-544-88835-7

  eISBN 978-0-358-62894-1

  v1.1021

  For Carolyn and Samantha, with all my love

  —G.D.S.

  For Jean, with love

  —J.M.

  Chapter One

  On Atwood Hill

  Wilson was Abigail Atwood’s friendliest sheep.

  Wilson was Abigail Atwood’s woolliest sheep.

  And Wilson was Abigail Atwood’s smartest sheep.

  That is a lot for one sheep to be.

  Every morning, Wilson waited for Abigail to climb the stony path that led from her little red house to the sheep pen and the pasture at the top of Atwood Hill.

  And every morning, Wilson waited for Tippy, Abigail’s faithful and obedient Border collie, who always came right behind her.

  “Good morning, Wilson,” Abigail Atwood always said.

  “Baa,” Wilson would say, and then Abigail Atwood would open the gate from the sheep pen to the pasture, and twenty-six sheep would crowd through. None of them ever stopped on the way to the thick grass.

  Except Wilson, the twenty-seventh sheep.

  Wilson always stopped, because he was friendly. He would rub his woolly head against Abigail’s knee. Then—and Abigail Atwood was sure he did this—Wilson would wink at her.

  When he did that, Abigail always bent down and patted him.

  “How’s my friendliest, woolliest, smartest sheep today?” Abigail would ask.

  Wilson would look up at Abigail.

  “Baa,” he would say.

  Then Abigail would always scratch under Wilson’s chin. And Wilson would always close his eyes with happiness.

  “Be a good sheep today,” Abigail would say, and Tippy would touch noses with Wilson, and Abigail would close the pasture gate and check the latch. Then they would walk down the stony path and turn toward the little red house, Abigail in front, Tippy close behind.

  And Wilson would watch them and think about Abigail on her front porch, patting Tippy’s black-and-white head before they went inside to the warm woodstove, where Tippy’s tail would thwack thwack thwack on the wood floor and Abigail’s rocking chair would creak creak creak back and forth.

  And Wilson would bleat a soft baa that was a little bit lonely.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Neighbors

  Abigail Atwood had one neighbor on Atwood Hill: Jeremiah Jefferson. Jeremiah Jefferson always brought a proper cap with him whenever he left the house. “It is what you do,” he said. And he always carried three screwdrivers, a couple of socket wrenches, and a pair of pliers in his back pocket. “You never know when you might need your tools,” he said. And he needed his tools all the time, because he fixed pickup trucks and tractors and rototillers and lawn mowers and anything else that rolled on wheels—especially if what rolled on wheels had an engine that made very loud noises.

  Abigail Atwood and Tippy did not care for very loud noises.

  Jeremiah Jefferson did not care for sheep.

  “Sheep are stupid as all get-out,” said Jeremiah Jefferson this morning as he pumped a little more air into the plump tires of Abigail’s quiet bicycle.

  Abigail Atwood cleared her throat.

  “They’d follow each other over a cliff, given half a chance,” said Jeremiah Jefferson as he adjusted the bicycle’s brakes.

  Abigail Atwood cleared her throat again.

  “And probably get lost on the way down,” said Jeremiah Jefferson as he lowered the bicycle seat a little.

  Abigail Atwood stared at Jeremiah Jefferson. “I sometimes wonder if Wilson might be every bit as smart as you are,” she said.

  “Can he grease a bicycle chain?” asked Jeremiah Jefferson.

  Abigail Atwood put her hands on her hips. “Wilson cannot grease a bicycle chain because he has tiny hooves. He can, however, grow a thick coat of wool—which is more than I can say for some.”

  Jeremiah Jefferson put his cap on his bald head. The air was a little frosty.

  “Sheep are ugly,” he said.

  Tippy’s ears went up, and she showed some of her teeth to Jeremiah Jefferson.

  “Wilson,” said Abigail Atwood, “is not only the friendliest, woolliest, and smartest sheep in the county. He is also the handsomest.”

  “That so?” said Jeremiah Jefferson.

  “Come see for yourself,” said Abigail Atwood.

  Jeremiah Jefferson followed Abigail Atwood up the stony path toward the pasture, Tippy right behind them.

  When Wilson saw Abigail open the pasture gate and Tippy waving her tail, he trotted to them and rubbed his woolly head against Abigail’s knee. She scratched him under his chin.

  “Isn’t Wilson a handsome sheep?” said Abigail.

  Jeremiah Jefferson looked at Wilson. Wilson’s nose was runny. He had dandelion fluff in his wool. He was chewing a long strand of yellow grass that drooped out of his mouth. He was drooling.

  “I suppose he’d look handsome to some,” said Jeremiah Jefferson.

  If Abigail Atwood hadn’t given Tippy a very stern look, Tippy might have nipped Jeremiah Jefferson in a place that would have kept him from sitting on a tractor for several days.

  But she said to Jeremiah Jefferson, “I wonder if something loud needs fixing back at your house.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said.

  “You should go home to make sure.” Jeremiah Jefferson walked back home to make sure.

  Abigail closed the pasture gate, but she and Tippy were annoyed. As they marched back to the little red house, they were so annoyed that they did not hear Wilson’s lonely baa. They did not notice him leaning his woolly head against the gate.

  And they did not check the latch.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Winter Coming

  Tippy knew all about sheep. She knew which ones did what they were told and which ones liked to make up their own minds. She knew which ones stayed with the flock and which ones wandered. She knew which ones she had to bark at and which ones she had to nip just a little to get them into the pen at night.

  And she knew Wilson was special.

  Tippy remembered when Wilson was a tiny lamb and slept wrap
ped in a checkered quilt in the box by the woodstove. She remembered how Abigail fed him milk from a warm bottle. She remembered how Wilson grew a little bigger and they would lie back to back at night. She remembered how in the mornings, Wilson followed her all over Atwood Hill. He would try to put his ears up and crouch down low the way Border collies do when they herd sheep.

  And Tippy remembered the summer afternoon when she stood with Abigail by the open pasture gate, watching the sheep graze, and Wilson stretched his head toward Tippy, and they touched noses, and then Wilson trotted through the gate to join the twenty-six sheep grazing on Atwood Hill.

  Abigail had closed the gate and checked the latch. Then she and Tippy had walked down the stony path back to the little red house, and Tippy was a little bit lonely.

  Tippy remembered all of that.

  Now, Tippy held her nose up into the wind. She could smell the sheep in the pasture. She could smell Jeremiah Jefferson’s loud machines. She could smell the cooler air of early winter.

  Tippy lay down and thought about the woodstove.

  Abigail Atwood smelled the cooler air of early winter too, and she thought about long, cold nights, and how quiet they could be, and she tried to hum a song about summer and cuckoo birds and ewes.

  “Tippy,” she said, “do you remember that silly song we sang for Wilson when he was just a lamb?”

  Tippy cocked her head and looked at Abigail.

  “No, I can’t remember it either.”

  Tippy barked her helpful bark.

  Abigail tried again to hum a snatch or two.

  Tippy barked her encouraging bark.

  “A piano! What a good idea!” Abigail said. “Why didn’t we think of it before? A piano is exactly what we need for long winter nights.”

  So Abigail called the piano store on Sullivan Street. The salesman was very helpful. They had an upright piano in the showroom that would be perfect, the young man said. They could deliver it to Atwood Hill right away. “Would that be convenient?” the young man asked.

  “That would be splendid,” Abigail Atwood said. “Wouldn’t that be splendid, Tippy?”

  Tippy barked her happy bark.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  What Wilson Saw

  Standing by the pasture gate, Wilson heard Tippy barking. He said “Baa” and wished he could bark. He tried to put his ears up and crouch down low the way Border collies do. When he stood again, his woolly head hit the gate.

  The gate moved.

  Wilson was frightened. He trotted to the other side of the pasture, behind the twenty-six other sheep, who were all grazing happily. Wilson watched the gate closely.

  He watched it for a long time.

  It did not move again.

  Wilson went back to the gate. He said “Baa,” but the gate did not say anything back. He reached forward and touched it with his nose. Then he butted it with his woolly head.

  It moved again.

  Wilson trotted back to the other side of the pasture.

  He watched the gate closely.

  He watched it for a long time.

  He thought about Abigail, and Tippy, and the stony path, and the woodstove, and the smell of blueberries in the warm kitchen of the little red house.

  Wilson went back to the gate. He butted it with his woolly head.

  It moved.

  None of the other sheep left their grazing when Wilson butted the pasture gate so hard that it opened wide. And none of them left their grazing when Wilson scooted out before the gate swung slowly back.

  And none of them saw Wilson trot down the stony path toward the little red house and the piano delivery truck that had just parked in front of it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  What Tippy Saw

  With one finger on the keyboard, Abigail Atwood tried to play the song about summer and cuckoo birds and ewes. She couldn’t make it sound exactly as she remembered.

  “Tippy, what am I doing wrong?” Abigail said.

  Tippy looked out the window. Her ears were up and her paws were on the sill. She barked.

  “Is someone here?” asked Abigail Atwood.

  “It’s me,” called Jeremiah Jefferson.

  Abigail got off her new piano bench and went to the door.

  “Couldn’t help but notice your new truck,” said Jeremiah Jefferson.

  “It’s not my new truck,” said Abigail. “It is a delivery truck from the piano store on Sullivan Street.”

  Jeremiah Jefferson looked disappointed. “Oh,” he said.

  “It probably makes a very loud noise,” said Abigail.

  “Hope so,” said Jeremiah Jefferson.

  The two deliverymen came in from the kitchen. One had a milk mustache. The other was holding half of a blueberry muffin.

  “Thanks, Ms. Atwood.”

  “Thank you,” said Abigail. “You may deliver a piano to my house anytime.”

  “What kind of engine you got under that hood?” asked Jeremiah Jefferson.

  The deliverymen looked at each other. They shrugged.

  “Sounds like it’s idling a little slow,” said Jeremiah Johnson.

  “Maybe,” said one of the deliverymen. “Let’s go find out,” said Jeremiah Jefferson. He pulled a socket wrench from his back pocket and they went outside.

  Abigail went back to her new piano bench. “Tippy,” she said, “you haven’t moved at all. What are you staring at?”

  Tippy jumped from the windowsill. She put her ears up and crouched down low. Then she ran back to the windowsill.

  She barked her frantic bark.

  CHAPTER SIX

  What Abigail Did Not See

  Wilson stood at the bottom of the ramp that led into the piano delivery truck in front of Abigail Atwood’s little red house. He had never seen a path like it before, and he wondered where it led. Then Wilson smelled something. He put his nose in the air—the way Tippy did—and sniffed. Blueberry muffins! He took a step toward the little red house, with its warm kitchen and warm woodstove.

  Then Wilson heard a very loud noise coming from the front of the truck.

  And he heard Tippy’s frantic bark.

  With the very loud noise coming from the front of the truck, it was hard for a sheep—even a very smart sheep—to tell where Tippy’s frantic bark was coming from.

  Wilson looked up the strange path.

  The pen at the top of it looked warm and comfortable.

  Maybe it had a woodstove.

  Maybe that’s where Tippy was.

  Wilson put one front hoof on the ramp, then the other.

  Then he put his two back hooves on the ramp and began to climb.

  It took only a few steps to reach the top of the ramp, and Wilson was right: The pen was warm and comfortable. The wood floor was worn smooth. Thick pads lined the walls. And a yellow light on the ceiling illuminated everything.

  He moved farther into the warm pen and looked around.

  No Tippy.

  No Abigail.

  No woodstove, either.

  Wilson began to wonder if a friendly, woolly, smart sheep belonged here after all.

  Then the two deliverymen lifted the ramp into the truck. Wilson said “Baa,” but the deliverymen did not hear Wilson over the very loud noise in front.

  The back doors slammed shut. “Baa,” said Wilson.

  Then the light went out. “Baa, baa,” said Wilson.

  “You want me to back it up?” Wilson heard Jeremiah Jefferson ask.

  Wilson baaed his frantic baa.

  “That’s okay,” said one of the deliverymen. Tippy began to bark again.

  “Baa, baa, baa,” said Wilson.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” Wilson heard Abigail say. “You’ve brought music to Atwood Hill.”

  “Baa, baa, baa, baa,” said Wilson.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  What Tippy Showed Abigail

  When Abigail came out onto the porch to wave goodbye to the deliverymen, Tippy came out with her. Tippy ran to the back of the truck and
barked. When the truck drove down Atwood Hill, Tippy ran beside it, barking all the way. When the truck pulled out onto the road and headed into town, Tippy ran back to the little red house and jumped, panting, onto the porch.

  “What has gotten into you?” asked Abigail Atwood.

  “Looks like she wants to tell you something,” said Jeremiah Jefferson.

  Tippy turned three times in a circle and looked at Abigail.

  “It will have to wait,” said Abigail.

  Tippy put her ears up and crouched down low.

  “Certainly not,” said Abigail. “We were up to the pasture this morning.”

  Tippy whined.

  “Sure does look like she wants something,” said Jeremiah Jefferson. “A blueberry muffin maybe?”

  Abigail Atwood looked at Jeremiah Jefferson. “You’re sure that’s what she wants?” she said.

  “Pretty sure,” said Jeremiah Jefferson.

  Abigail Atwood went inside her little red house and came out with three blueberry muffins. She handed them to Jeremiah Jefferson.

  “I was talking about the dog,” said Jeremiah Jefferson.

  “Of course,” said Abigail. She waved goodbye to Jeremiah Jefferson and opened the door to the little red house. She went inside with Tippy and sat on her new piano bench. She played a few scales, then tried to pick out the song about summer and cuckoo birds and ewes. This time she got it just right.

  “Did you hear that, Tippy?” said Abigail.

  Tippy whined.

  Abigail was losing patience with Tippy. “What is it?” she asked.

  Tippy put her ears up and crouched down low.

  “Now?” she said.

  Tippy crouched down even lower.

  “All right, all right,” said Abigail. She went to the closet and put on her coat. “Let’s go.”

  Abigail and Tippy climbed up the stony path toward the pasture. Tippy ran ahead, then came back, ran ahead, came back, ran ahead, came back—her tail waving in circles.

  “Honestly,” said Abigail.

  When they reached the pasture, the sheep were grazing—as they always were. Abigail counted them, just to be sure. “Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six. You see, Tippy, they’re all . . . Wait a moment.”