Snowdrop the Lamb Counts the Clouds Instead of Sheep

On a round green hill, above a farm with a red barn and a crooked apple tree, there lived a little lamb named Snowdrop. His wool was white and curly, as soft as a pillow. His nose was pink. His ears flopped when he ran, and he ran a great deal, because there was so much on the hill to see.

Every evening, when the sun went down behind the apple tree, the flock gathered close together in the long grass to sleep. Mother Ewe would lie down, and Snowdrop would snuggle into her warm, woolly side.

But Snowdrop was not good at sleeping.

"Close your eyes, little one," said Mother Ewe.

Snowdrop closed his eyes. Then he opened one. Then the other.

"I can't sleep," he whispered. "My eyes keep popping open."

From a few steps away came a sleepy chuckle. It was old Grandpa Ram, with his big curly horns and his slow, rumbly voice.

"When the farmer's children cannot sleep," he said, "do you know what they do? They count sheep. They imagine sheep jumping over a fence, one, two, three, and soon they are fast asleep."

Snowdrop sat up. "But Grandpa, we are sheep. What should sheep count?"

Grandpa Ram thought about this for a long time. So long that Snowdrop thought he had fallen asleep himself.

"That," he said at last, "is a very good question. You will have to find out for yourself."

Snowdrop lay down again and looked up. The sky above the hill was turning soft and dark, the color of blueberries. And across it, slowly, floated the evening clouds.

"I know," Snowdrop whispered. "I will count clouds."

He looked at the first cloud. It was long and fluffy, and it looked a little bit like a sleeping cat, curled up with its tail around its nose.

"One," whispered Snowdrop. "A cat cloud."

The cat cloud floated slowly past the moon. Behind it came another cloud, round and puffy, like a loaf of fresh bread just out of the farmer's oven. Snowdrop could almost smell it, warm and golden.

"Two," he whispered. "A bread cloud."

He thought about the farmer's kitchen, with its warm stove and its basket of apples, and the little crumbs the children sometimes dropped for the sparrows. His ears drooped softly onto the grass.

Mother Ewe's side rose and fell, rose and fell. It was warm and steady, like a slow drum. The grass rustled softly in the breeze. Somewhere down by the barn, a cricket began to sing. Cheep, cheep. Cheep, cheep.

The third cloud was very small and thin, like a feather that had drifted down from a passing goose.

"Three," whispered Snowdrop. "A feather cloud."

Snowdrop's eyes felt a little heavier. He blinked slowly.

The fourth cloud was big and wide, with two bumps on top. It looked like a hill. It looked, in fact, just like their own round green hill, only made of silver.

"Four," Snowdrop whispered. "A hill cloud. With a flock of cloud sheep sleeping on it."

He imagined tiny cloud sheep lying on the cloud hill, all curled up, all warm. One of them was a tiny cloud lamb, snuggled close to its cloud mother.

The moon came out from behind the hill cloud. It was round and pale and gentle, and it made the edges of all the clouds glow like the edges of a lamp shade.

The fifth cloud was shaped like a boat. It had a curved bottom and a little pointed sail. It floated so slowly across the sky that Snowdrop could hardly tell it was moving.

"Five," he whispered. "A boat cloud. Sailing to..."

He yawned a big lamb yawn. His pink nose wrinkled.

"Sailing to sleep," he murmured.

Grandpa Ram opened one eye and looked over at him. "How many have you counted?" he rumbled softly.

"Five," whispered Snowdrop. "A cat, a bread, a feather, a hill, and a boat."

"That is a very fine count," said Grandpa Ram. "Much better than sheep. Sheep are always bumping into the fence."

Snowdrop giggled sleepily. Mother Ewe smiled in the dark and nuzzled the top of Snowdrop's curly head.

The sixth cloud was hard to see. It was very soft and faint, like a breath on a cold window. It did not look like anything at all. It just looked like a cloud, drifting peacefully, not in a hurry to go anywhere.

"Six," Snowdrop whispered. "A quiet cloud."

The cricket sang. The breeze hummed. Down at the farm, a light went out in the farmhouse window, and then another. The farmer's children were going to sleep too. Snowdrop wondered whether they were counting sheep right now. Perhaps, he thought, they were counting him.

He smiled at that.

The seventh cloud was the last one in the sky. It was small and round and very white, curled up just beside the moon, like a little lamb snuggled against its mother.

Snowdrop looked at it for a long, long time.

"Seven," he whispered, so quietly that only the grass could hear. "A Snowdrop cloud."

His eyes closed. This time, they did not pop open again.

Mother Ewe listened to her lamb's breathing grow slow and soft and even. She looked up at the sky, at the cat and the bread and the feather, the hill and the boat, the quiet cloud and the tiny one beside the moon.

"Goodnight, Snowdrop," she whispered.

And high above the round green hill, the clouds kept floating slowly on, carrying all the sleepy wishes of the farm into the deep blue night.

The next evening, when the sun went down behind the apple tree, Snowdrop snuggled into Mother Ewe's side. He did not say, "I can't sleep."

Instead, he looked up at the sky and smiled.

"One," he whispered. "A cloud that looks like Grandpa Ram's horns."

Grandpa Ram laughed his slow, rumbly laugh, and the whole flock settled down to sleep.