LITMIR.BIZ

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of happiness and excitement, and still feeling as though she would never be frightened again. As she started back across the fields she sang to herself one of the songs from an old book of songs which the Shepherds often used. Never before had it seemed to her so sweet, so applicable.

      “The Song of Songs,” the loveliest song,

      The song of Love the King,

      No joy on earth compares with his,

      But seems a broken thing.

      His Name as ointment is poured forth,

      And all his lovers sing.

      Draw me—I will run after thee,

      Thou art my heart’s one choice,

      Oh, bring me to thy royal house,

      To dwell there and rejoice.

      There in thy presence, O my King,

      To feast and hear thy voice.

      Look not upon me with contempt,

      Though soiled and marred I be,

      The King found me—an outcast thing—

      And set his love on me.

      I shall be perfected by Love,

      Made fair as day to see.

      (Cant. 1:1-6)

      She walked singing across the first field and was halfway over the next when suddenly she saw Craven Fear himself coming toward her. Poor Much-Afraid: for a little while she had completely forgotten the existence of her dreadful relatives, and now here was the most dreaded and detested of them all slouching toward her. Her heart filled with a terrible panic. She looked right and left, but there was no hiding place anywhere, and besides it was all too obvious that he was actually coming to meet her, for as soon as he saw her he quickened his pace and in a moment or two was right beside her.

      With a horror that sickened her very heart she heard him say, “Well, here you are at last, little Cousin Much-Afraid. So we are to be married, eh, what do you think of that?” and he pinched her, presumably in a playful manner, but viciously enough to make her gasp and bite her lips to keep back a cry of pain.

      She shrank away from him and shook with terror and loathing. Unfortunately this was the worst thing she could have done, for it was always her obvious fear which encouraged him to continue tormenting her. If only she could have ignored him, he soon would have tired of teasing and of her company and would have wandered off to look for other prey. In all her life, however, Much-Afraid had never been able to ignore Fear. Now it was absolutely beyond her power to conceal the dread which she felt.

      Her white face and terrified eyes immediately had the effect of stimulating Craven’s desire to bait her. Here she was, alone and completely in his power. He caught hold of her, and poor Much-Afraid uttered one frenzied cry of terror and pain. At that moment Craven Fear loosed his grasp and cringed away.

      The Shepherd had approached them unperceived and was standing beside them. One look at his stern face and flashing eyes and the stout Shepherd’s cudgel grasped in his strong, uplifted hand was more than enough for the bully. Craven Fear slunk away like a whipped cur, actually running from the village instead of toward it, not knowing where he was going, urged by one instinct alone, to find a place of safety.

      Much-Afraid burst into tears. Of course she ought to have know that Craven was a coward and that if only she had lifted her voice and called for the Shepherd, he would have fled at once. Now her dress was torn and disordered, and her arms bruised by the bully’s grip, yet that was the least part of her distress. She was overwhelmed with shame that she had so quickly acted like her old name and nature, which she had hoped was beginning to be changed already.

      It seemed so impossible to ignore the Fearings, still less to resist them. She did not dare look at the Shepherd, but had she done so she would have seen with what compassion he was regarding her. She did not realize that the Prince of Love is “of very tender compassions to them that are afraid.” She supposed that, like everybody else, he was despising her for her silly fears, so she muttered a shamed “thank you.”

      Then, still without looking at him, she limped painfully toward the village, weeping bitterly as she went and saying over and over again to herself, “What is the use of even thinking of going to the High Places? I could never reach them, for the least little thing is enough to turn me back.”

      However, when at last she reached the security of the cottage she began to feel better, and by the time she had drunk a cup of tea and taken her evening meal she had recovered so far that she was able to remind herself of all that had happened there beside the cascade and the pool. Suddenly she remembered, with a thrill of wonder and delight, that the seed of Love had been planted in her heart. As she thought of it, the same almost intolerable sweetness stole over her, the bittersweet, indefinable but wholly delightful ecstasy of a new happiness.

      “It is happy to love,” said little Much-Afraid to herself and then she repeated: “It is happy to love.” After putting the cottage in order for the night, because she was utterly tired out with all the conflicting emotions of that strange day, she went to bed. Lying there before falling asleep, she sang over and over again to herself another of the lovely songs from the old song book.

      O thou whom my soul loveth,

      Tell me where thou dost feed,

      And where thy flocks at noonday

      To rest and browse dost lead.

      For why should I

      By others be,

      And not by thee?

      O fairest among women,

      Dost thou indeed not know?

      Then lead my little flock let

      The way that my flocks go;

      And be to me,

      As I to thee,

      Sweet company.

      (Cant. 1:7-8)

      Then she fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

      Fearing Invasion

      Much-Afraid woke early the next morning and all her fears were gone. Her first thought was, “Probably sometime today I am to start for the High Places with the Shepherd.” This so excited her that she could hardly eat her breakfast, and as she began making arrangements for her departure, she could not help singing.

      It seemed to her that ever since the seed of Love had been planted in her heart, songs of joy were welling up in her innermost being. And the songs which best expressed this new happiness and thankfulness were from the old book which the shepherds so loved to use as they worked among the flocks and led them to the pastures. As she carried out the simple arrangements the Shepherd had told her to make, she sang another of these songs.

      Now when the King at table sits,

      My spikenard smelleth sweet,

      And myrrh and camphire from my store

      I pour upon his feet.

      My thankful love must be displayed,

      He loved and wooed a beggar maid.

      Ye daughters of Jerusalem,

      I’m black to look upon

      As goatskin tents; but also as

      The tent of Solomon.

      Without, I bear the marks of sin,

      But Love’s adorning is within.

      Despise me not that I am black,

      The sun hath burned my face,

      My mother’s children hated me,

      And drove me from my place.

      In their vineyards

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