"Turn from us, gracious Lord, thy dire displeasure! Let not thy bloody rod, beyond all measure, Chasten thy children, laden with sore oppressions, For our transgressions."[9] CHAPTER V. Arne became habitually silent and shy. He tended cattle and made songs. He passed his nineteenth birthday, and still he kept on tending cattle. He borrowed books from the priest and read; but he took interest in nothing else. The priest sent word to him one day that he had better become a school-master, "because the parish ought to derive benefit from your talents and knowledge." Arne made no reply to this; but the next day, while driving the sheep before him, he made the following song:-- "Oh, my pet lamb, lift your head, Though the stoniest path you tread, Over the mountains lonely, Still your bells follow only. "Oh, my pet lamb, walk with care, Lest you spoil all your wool beware, Mother must soon be sewing Skins for the summer's going. "Oh, my pet lamb, try to grow Fat and fine wheresoe'er you go! Know you not, little sweeting, A spring lamb is dainty eating!"[10] One day in his twentieth year Arne chanced to overhear a conversation between his mother and the wife of the former gard owner; they were disputing about the horse they owned in common. "I must wait to hear what Arne says," remarked the mother. "That lazy fellow!" was the reply. "He would like, I dare say, to have the horse go ranging about the woods as he does himself." The mother was now silent, although before she had been arguing her own case well. Arne turned as red as fire. It had not occurred to him before that his mother might have to listen to taunting words for his sake, and yet perhaps she had often been obliged to do so. Why had she not told him of this? He considered the matter well, and now it struck him that his mother scarcely ever talked with him. But neither did he talk with her. With whom did he talk, after all? Often on Sunday, when he sat quietly at home, he felt a desire to read sermons to his mother, whose eyes were poor; she had wept too much in her day. But he did not have the courage to do so. Many times he had wanted to offer to read aloud to her from his own books, when all was still in the house, and he thought the time must hang heavily on her hands. But his courage failed him for this too. "It cannot matter much. I must give up tending the herds, and move down to mother." He let several days pass, and became firm in his resolve. Then he drove the cattle far around in the wood, and made the following song:-- "The vale is full of trouble, but here sweet Peace may reign; Within this quiet forest no bailiffs may distrain; None fight, as in the vale, in the Blessed Church's name, Yet if a church were here, it would no doubt be just the same.