"Regard us again in mercy, O God! And turn Thou aside Thy terrible rod, That now in Thy wrath laid on us we see To chasten us sore for sin against Thee." V. "HE HAD IN HIS MIND A SONG." Arne was now in his twentieth year. Yet he continued tending the cattle upon the mountains in the summer, while in the winter he remained at home studying. About this time the clergyman sent a message, asking him to become the parish schoolmaster, and saying his gifts and knowledge might thus be made useful to his neighbors. Arne sent no answer; but the next day, while he was driving his flock, he made the following verses: "O, my pet lamb, lift your head, Though a stony path you tread, Over all the lonely fells, Only follow still your bells. O, my pet lamb, walk with care; Lest you spoil your wool, beware: Mother now must soon be sewing New lamb-skins, for summer's going. O, my pet lamb, try to grow Fat and fine where'er you go: Know you not, my little sweeting, A spring-lamb is dainty eating?" One day he happened to overhear a conversation between his mother and the late owner of the place: they were at odds about the horse of which they were joint-owners. "I must wait and hear what Arne says," interposed the mother. "That sluggard!" the man exclaimed; "he would like the horse to ramble about in the wood, just as he does himself." Then the mother became silent, though before she had been pleading her cause well. Arne flushed crimson. That his mother had to bear people's jeers on his account, never before occurred to him, and, "Perhaps she had borne many," he thought. "But why had she not told him of it?" he thought again. He turned the matter over, and then it came into his mind that the mother scarcely ever talked to him at all. But, then, he scarcely ever talked to her either. But, after all, whom did he talk much to? Often on Sundays, when he was sitting quietly at home, he would have liked to read the sermon to his mother, whose eyes were weak, for she had wept too much in her time. Still, he did not read it. Often, too, on weekdays, when she was sitting down, and he thought the time might hang heavy, he would have liked to offer to read some of his own books to her: still, he did not. "Well, never mind," thought he: "I'll soon leave off tending the cattle on the mountains; and then I'll be more with mother." He let this resolve ripen within him for several days: meanwhile he drove his cattle far about in the wood, and made the following verses: "The vale is full of trouble, but here sweet Peace may reign; Within this quiet forest no bailiffs may distrain; None fight, like all in the vale, in the Blessèd Church's name; But still if a church were here, perhaps 'twould be just the same.