One Smart Sheep Read online

  Abigail put her hand on the pasture gate. It swung open easily.

  “Oh, mercy,” said Abigail.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  What Would Tippy Do?

  In the back of the piano delivery truck, Wilson tried to be brave. But it is hard for a sheep—even a very friendly, woolly, smart sheep—to stand bravely in the back of a piano delivery truck.

  Whenever the deliveryman stepped on the brakes, Wilson slid forward into the pads at the front of the truck. When the deliveryman stepped on the accelerator, Wilson slid into the back doors. When the deliveryman took a right-hand turn, Wilson skidded into the pads on the left wall. When the deliveryman took a left turn, Wilson skidded into the pads on the right wall.

  It wasn’t long before Wilson gave up trying to be brave. He huddled in a corner and baaed his frantic baa.

  But he was alone in the back of the piano delivery truck.

  And he was hearing things he had never heard on Atwood Hill: the rumble of trucks hauling heavy loads, a jackhammer pounding. And they were louder than any of Jeremiah Jefferson’s machines.

  In a little while, the delivery truck slowed down and Wilson heard someone calling “Hot dogs! Hot dogs! Two for a buck!” And he heard a calliope singing breathy music. He had never heard a calliope before. He put his ears up like a Border collie.

  Then the delivery truck slowed down even more, and Wilson heard the high, light bells of a church steeple chiming, and the slow, deep bells of a clock tower tolling. He closed his eyes. Wilson had never heard anything so beautiful as these chimes and bells.

  As they got close to Sullivan Street, the delivery truck stopped often before it made a turn. Wilson heard cars honking and brakes squealing and sirens passing by.

  Wilson stood. He was afraid. He wondered what the sounds he heard meant.

  Then Wilson thought about what Tippy would do if she were in the back of the piano delivery truck.

  Tippy would not be afraid.

  Tippy would wait by the back doors, and when they opened, Tippy would leap out and look for where the sounds came from.

  Wilson knew that was exactly what Tippy would do.

  So when the truck stopped, Wilson moved to the back doors. He put his ears up and crouched down low the way Border collies do.

  He waited for the doors to open.

  CHAPTER NINE

  High and Low

  Abigail counted the sheep one more time. She walked all around the fence and looked over Atwood Hill as far as her sharp eyes could see. She looked in the sheep pen. Then she made her way down the stony path as quickly as she could. She looked to the right and to the left, but Wilson was nowhere in sight. She looked all around the little red house, but no Wilson. She looked on the front porch. She even looked in the kitchen by the woodstove.

  No Wilson.

  “Tippy, it’s almost as if he were taken away,” said Abigail—and then she remembered the piano deliverymen and their very loud truck.

  And she remembered Tippy’s barking.

  “Oh, Tippy,” Abigail said, “why didn’t I listen to you?”

  Abigail found her telephone. She dialed the number of the piano store on Sullivan Street. She tried not to imagine what Wilson was going through in the back of the delivery truck.

  But when the young man at the piano shop answered the telephone, he was not very helpful.

  “A real sheep?” the young man asked.

  “Yes,” said Abigail.

  “A sheep that goes ‘baa, baa’?”

  “Yes,” said Abigail.

  “You think there’s a real sheep in the back of our truck?” said the young man.

  “Yes. A sheep that goes ‘baa, baa,’” said Abigail.

  “Listen, I don’t have time for jokes,” said the young man.

  “Neither do I,” said Abigail. “And this is certainly no joke.”

  The young man hung up.

  “What a rude person,” said Abigail to Tippy.

  Tippy was standing and looking at Abigail. She barked her worried bark.

  “I know,” said Abigail. “We will have to find Wilson ourselves, Tippy.”

  Abigail made her second phone call.

  “Mr. Jefferson,” she said, “we have an emergency. We need to go to town immediately to find Wilson. If you ever hope to have another blueberry muffin . . .”

  “I’ll be right over,” said Jeremiah Jefferson.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Wilson’s Leap

  Wilson felt the delivery truck stop. The loud noise in the front stopped, too. Doors opened and closed. Wilson heard someone singing—the song was not as nice as Abigail’s. Then the singing stopped and Wilson heard voices at the back of the truck. He heard the doors unlock.

  Wilson’s ears were up. He was crouching down low.

  When the back doors opened, Wilson said “Baa” as loudly as a sheep can say baa, and he leaped like a Border collie over the heads of the two astonished deliverymen—who made sounds almost as loud as Wilson’s—and clattered on his tiny hooves into the parking lot beside the piano store on Sullivan Street.

  Wilson turned to the two deliverymen. “Baa,” he said. He was trying for Tippy’s fierce bark, and he came so close that the two deliverymen ran into the piano store.

  “Baa,” said Wilson again. This was his satisfied baa, because he was very pleased with himself.

  He looked around. Buildings taller than Abigail’s little red house reared up on one side. He looked around again. Buildings taller than Atwood Hill reared up on the other side. Beside them, cars sped by, making sounds as loud as Jeremiah Jefferson’s machines. Above them, thick gray clouds gathered.

  “Baa,” said Wilson. This was not his satisfied baa. This was his frightened baa. He wished he were back in the sheep pen at Atwood Hill.

  People passing by stopped and pointed at him.

  “Baa,” said Wilson again. This was his I-am-about-to-cry baa.

  Wilson ran out of the parking lot beside the piano store and onto Sullivan Street. There were many more buildings here, and many more cars, and many more people who pointed at him.

  “Baa,” said Wilson. This was his I-am-crying baa.

  Wilson ran down Sullivan Street. He did not run very fast. Sheep do not run very fast, especially when they have a thick coat of wool to carry and they are baaing their I-am-crying baa.

  When Wilson heard a particularly loud machine coming toward him, he turned on to a side street and ran as fast as he could—which still wasn’t very fast—on his tiny hooves. He was thirsty. He began to pant because he was out of breath.

  “Baa,” he said—and it was his lonely baa.

  And then Wilson heard a clock begin to toll. He stopped running. He listened. The tolls were slow and deep.

  He had heard them before.

  He remembered them.

  Wilson put his ears up the way Border collies do. He listened. Then, on his tiny hooves, he trotted toward the tolling clock tower.

  The thick gray clouds grew darker.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sniffing Around

  Tippy stretched her nose out of the open window of Jeremiah Jefferson’s car. She tried to catch a sniff of Wilson, but town was nothing like Atwood Hill. Tippy smelled diesel fuel and grilled Italian sausages and pepperoni and cooking oil and rubber and dry leaves in the air, and the grease on Jeremiah Jefferson’s wrench sticking out of his back pocket. But Tippy did not smell Wilson.

  “Why do you always wear that old cap?” yelled Abigail. She had to yell because Jeremiah Jefferson’s car was very loud.

  “To make me look handsome,” hollered Jeremiah Jefferson.

  “It’s not working,” yelled Abigail Atwood.

  Jeremiah Jefferson gripped the wheel tightly. The road in town was crowded and busy, nothing like the road by Atwood Hill.

  “There.” Abigail pointed. “Sullivan Street. We’re almost there. Look for the piano shop.”

  They found it only a block later, and Jeremiah Jefferso
n parked in front. Abigail and Tippy were out in a moment.

  Abigail opened the door and a little bell sounded. “May I help you find a piano today?” the young man asked.

  “I have a piano,” said Abigail. “I’m looking for a sheep.”

  “So you’re the lady with the sheep,” said the young man.

  Abigail was not sure she liked this young man very much.

  “Has your delivery truck come back?” she said.

  “It has—and your sheep scared the daylights out of our deliverymen.”

  Tippy was not sure she liked this young man very much either.

  “Grown men,” said Abigail, “are rarely frightened by sheep. Where is Wilson?”

  “Gone,” said the young man.

  “Gone?” said Abigail.

  “Gone,” said the young man.

  “Gone where?” asked Abigail.

  “Gone I have no idea where,” said the young man.

  If Abigail Atwood hadn’t given Tippy a very stern look, Tippy might have nipped the young man in a place that would have kept him from sitting on a piano bench for several days.

  Abigail and Tippy went back to Jeremiah Jefferson’s car.

  “We’ll have to drive around town to see if we can find Wilson,” yelled Abigail.

  Jeremiah Jefferson drove into the traffic. Tippy’s nose sniffed the air. Abigail’s sharp eyes peered down every street.

  Jeremiah Jefferson looked up at the sky. “Looks like snow,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  What Wilson Remembered

  Wilson stood below the clock tower. Above him, the last bells had finished their slow, deep tolling. He looked around, but he could not see Atwood Hill. Snow in the air fell softly, and Wilson baaed his confused baa.

  Then Wilson’s ears went up the way Border collies’ do.

  He heard more bells.

  They were high and light, and they were chiming in a steeple not far away.

  On his tiny hooves, Wilson trotted toward the church.

  Even though he was a friendly sheep, Wilson paid no attention to the people on the sidewalk who looked at him as if they had never seen a sheep heading toward a church before.

  He was listening to the light bells.

  “Baa,” said Wilson.

  When he got to the chiming steeple, Wilson looked around. He put his nose in the air—the way Tippy did—and sniffed. He did not smell anything familiar, but from far away, he heard something he remembered: the breathy singing of the calliope. It was very, very faint, and a sheep not quite as smart as Wilson might not have recognized it. But Wilson did, and, on his tiny hooves, he trotted toward the singing calliope.

  When he reached it, Wilson was well out of town. The road was no longer crowded with cars honking and brakes squealing and sirens passing by. On one side of the road, all the cars had been chased into a pen and were being quiet, and on the other side of the road a calliope was playing beside a big tent with flags flying on top and lots of people herded inside.

  Wilson listened carefully. None of these was the song Abigail used to sing to him on cold nights while he lay under the checkered quilt in the box beside the woodstove in the kitchen.

  Then Wilson heard something else. From not very far away, he heard someone calling “Hot dogs! Hot dogs! Two for a buck!”

  Wilson trotted to the man who was calling, and the man gave Wilson two hot dog buns with some onions. Wilson ate them quickly. They were not nearly as good as the thick grass of Atwood Hill, but he was hungry.

  The man with the hot dogs looked up to the cloudy sky. “You better get on home, sheep,” he said, and Wilson thought so too. But which way was Atwood Hill?

  Then, from very far away, Wilson heard the sound of a jackhammer pounding pounding pounding. He remembered that sound. On his tiny hooves, he trotted down the road away from town. The snow was falling a little harder now, and it landed on Wilson’s wool, and his eyelashes, and his ears—which were up the way Border collies’ are.

  When he reached the pounding pounding pounding, there was snow on the man holding the jackhammer too. The man took off his glasses and wiped snowflakes from them. And when he put his glasses back on, he saw Wilson. “What are you doing out here?” he said.

  “Baa,” said Wilson.

  But Wilson did not stay to talk. Ahead of him he heard the rumble of trucks hauling heavy loads. He hurried on.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Where Is Wilson?

  Abigail Atwood, Jeremiah Jefferson, and Tippy drove with heavy hearts. They had driven up and down every street in town. They had gone back to the piano store on Sullivan Street to check the truck once more—just in case. Tippy had sniffed until her nose was almost frozen.

  No sign of Wilson at all. Not anywhere.

  The tolling of the clock tower told them how late it was getting. Soon it would be dark. And it was starting to snow hard.

  “Oh, mercy,” yelled Abigail.

  “We’ll drive down Sullivan Street one more time,” hollered Jeremiah Jefferson.

  They did.

  No Wilson.

  “We’d better go home,” yelled Abigail. “The other sheep will need tending to.”

  “We’ll look again tomorrow,” hollered Jeremiah Jefferson.

  “Thank you,” yelled Abigail.

  They drove toward Atwood Hill. At the edge of town, they passed a circus, where a calliope was singing breathily. Outside the gate, a man was taking down the snowy umbrella over his hot dog stand. “I suppose it’s too cold and wet for anyone to buy hot dogs now,” yelled Abigail.

  They drove farther, and a man was brushing the snow off his jackhammer and putting it away for the night. Ahead of him, trucks rumbled onto the road, carrying heavy loads.

  “Those are powerful trucks,” hollered Jeremiah Jefferson.

  “Yes,” yelled Abigail sadly.

  Ahead was Atwood Hill. About halfway up, the lights of the little red house glowed.

  Then Tippy began to bark.

  And bark.

  And bark.

  “Looks like she wants to tell you something,” hollered Jeremiah Johnson.

  “What is it, Tippy?” yelled Abigail.

  Tippy barked again, then began scratching at the door. She barked her frantic bark.

  Jeremiah Jefferson stopped, and when Abigail opened her door, and when Tippy bounded out, and when Abigail got out after her, and when Jeremiah Jefferson got out after Abigail, they all saw the same thing: one friendly, woolly, smart sheep trotting along the side of the road on tiny hooves, covered in snow, and heading toward Atwood Hill.

  Wilson.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  By the Woodstove

  Night had come quickly to Atwood Hill. At the top of the hill, twenty-six sheep were safe in their pen. It would be a cold night, and Tippy had snuggled them close together. Then she and Abigail had come down the stony path to the little red house.

  Inside, Jeremiah Jefferson had finished stoking the woodstove, and it was warm and glowing happily. Abigail reached into the kitchen cupboard and brought out three blueberry muffins and put them on a plate. She gave one to Jeremiah Jefferson. “Thank you,” she said.

  “I didn’t do anything,” said Jeremiah Jefferson. “Wilson came home all by himself. I have to admit, that sure is one smart sheep.”

  “And,” Abigail said, “you do look handsome when you have that old cap off.”

  Abigail put the plate on the kitchen table, and then she broke the second blueberry muffin in half. She gave half to Tippy, who lay beside the woodstove, and half to Wilson, who lay beside Tippy.

  She patted Tippy’s head, then Wilson’s. “Just this once,” she said.

  Then Abigail took the plate with the last blueberry muffin and she set it on her new piano bench, and she put her fingers on the keys and she played her new piano. She played the song about summer and cuckoo birds and ewes, because she remembered it now, and that is how she felt.

  Tippy laid her head on t
he floor and closed her eyes. Wilson laid his head on the floor and closed his eyes, too. It had been a long day and they were sleepy. They listened to the music.

  And high above them, the music about summer and cuckoo birds and ewes floated along the stony path and up Atwood Hill. It floated into the sheep pen, where twenty-six sheep lay side by side, their eyes closed, asleep.

  Except for Marigold, who was listening to the music. She stood up. She nudged her way past the other twenty-five sheep and woke them. Marigold looked down the stony path toward the little red house. The snow had slowed and the moon was trying to shine all over Atwood Hill.

  Marigold went to the sheep pen gate to get a closer look. Then she butted the gate with her woolly head.

  It moved.

  The other twenty-five sheep stood up behind Marigold.

  Marigold butted the sheep pen gate with her woolly head again.

  The other twenty-five sheep said, “Baa.”

  …

  A little while later, Tippy and Wilson lifted their heads. Tippy barked and Wilson raised his ears up the way Border collies do.

  “Is someone here?” asked Abigail, rising from her new piano bench.

  She went to the window and looked out into the darkness.

  “Who is it?” asked Jeremiah Jefferson.

  “Oh, mercy,” said Abigail Atwood, and with Tippy the Border collie and Wilson the smart sheep crowding behind her, she opened the door.

  Visit clarionbooks.com to find more books by Gary D. Schmidt.

  Visit clarionbooks.com to find all of the books in the Sydney & Taylor series.

  About the Authors

  GARY D. SCHMIDT is the bestselling author of many books for young readers, including the Newbery Honor and Printz Honor book Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy and the Newbery Honor book The Wednesday Wars, as well as Almost Time and A Long Road on a Short Day, which he also coauthored with Elizabeth Stickney. He is a professor of English at Calvin University in Grand Rapids, Michigan.