“With a great giant
In Giantland.”
Seymour Barnard.
I
The Giant and the Herdboy
Ivan, the herdboy, lay on the hillside watching the King’s sheep. It was growing dark, but he did not start for home. For in all the world he had no home to go to. There was no one who belonged to him,—neither father nor mother, nor brother nor sister, nor grandfather nor grandmother, nor so much as a stepmother. Even his best friends, the sheep, belonged to the King.
Ivan took good care of them nevertheless; and got his black bread and white cheese to eat in return. Day and night he stayed with his flock out in the open field; and only when the storm beat down very wet did he crawl into the little hut he had built at the edge of the forest.
It was not so very lonely after all. For there were ninety-nine sheep to keep out of bogs and briers. And besides, there were ever so many good games he could play by himself, vaulting over the bushes with his crook and playing little tunes on a reed.
It was only at the dead of night when he woke up to hear the wolves howling, howling in the dark, and the icy shivers began to chase each other along his back, that he couldn’t help wishing for a warm bed at home, with a stout father sleeping nearby.