Shear The Sheep Quotes

Unlike most boys, who considered their lousy luck the way the world worked, accepting it as a sheep accepts a shearing, Edward resented his fate, feeling he’d been singled out for punishment by some unforgiving force of evil.

And the simple people are trash. A herd of sheep that are good for shearing, but sometimes it's more profitable to slaughter them.

Hey,” he said. “Hi.” Oh, damn. It was awkward. “What’re you doing?” “Shearing a sheep. It’s cold outside, and I need a new hat.” He paused. “You’re joking, right?” “Yes, Marshall.” I gnawed on my fingers some more and sunk back in my chair.

Making something from nothing is the quintessential magic of women, whether turning fiber to thread or flour to bread or engaging in the ultimate creative act: conjuring new humans from nowhere at all.

We don't think the sheep have stopped being sheep because we sheared them.

For I perceived that man's estate is as a citadel: he may throw down the walls to gain what he calls freedom, but then nothing of him remains save a dismantled fortress, open to the stars. And then begins the anguish of not-being. Far better for him were it to achieve his truth in the homely smell of blazing vine shoots, or of the sheep he has to shear. Truth strikes deep, like a well. A gaze that wanders loses sight of God. And that wise man who, keeping his thoughts in hand, knows little more than the weight of his flock's wool has a clearer vision of God than [anyone]. Citadel, I will build you in men's hearts. / Wisdom of the Sands by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

It is the duty of a good shepherd to shear his sheep, not to skin them.

How was I feeling? Like spoiled meat. Like brackish water. Like I had worked very hard at shearing and chasing sheep all over the field, and had fallen down a rocky hill, then trudged home to sleep on the floor, and woke up with a sore body and without purpose.

It was the first day of June, and the sheep-shearing season culminated, the landscape, even to the leanest pasture, being all health and colour. Every green was young, every pore was open, and every stalk was swollen with racing currents of juice. God was palpably present in the country, and the devil had gone with the world to town.

Moreover, wool wasn’t sheared in the early days, but painfully plucked. It is little wonder that sheep are such skittish animals when humans are around.

But for a mother who was submissive to the degree my mother was, it was OK to kill girls. For a father like mine, it was normal to chop off his daughters hair with sheep shears, and to beat her with a belt or a cane or tie her up in the stable all night with the cows.

He is not drowning His sheep when He washeth them, nor killing them when He is shearing them. But by this He showeth that they are His own: and the new-shorn sheep do most visibly bear His name or mark; when it is almost worn out and scarce discernible on them that have the longest fleece.

Spend any time in the real Italy, however, and you quickly realize that Italians don’t really pick grapes much anymore, and they certainly don’t stomp them either. They don’t pick tomatoes—or olives—and they don’t shear their sheep. Their tomatoes and olives are picked largely by underpaid Africans and Eastern Europeans, seasonal hires, brought in for that purpose—who are then demonized and complained about for the rest of the year. (Except when blowing motorists in the offseason—as can be readily observed on the outskirts of even the smallest Italian communities these days.)

like a blustered Bostonian sheep blubbering about being sheared at the ba ba

You’re always trying to prove something unnecessary that no one cares about to nobody in particular.

The way I look at it, impatience may be the enemy of perfection, but the perfect is the enemy of the good.

Mamma,” said Eva, “I want to have some of my hair cut off,—a good deal of it.” “What for?” said Marie. “Mamma, I want to give some away to my friends, while I am able to give it to them myself. Won’t you ask aunty to come and cut it for me?” Marie raised her voice, and called Miss Ophelia, from the other room. The child half rose from her pillow as she came in, and, shaking down her long golden-brown curls, said, rather playfully, “Come, aunty, shear the sheep!

Earl had let Bertie off the porch for some fresh grass and I didn't want Dr. Eustace to see her. She still looked as though we'd put Hannibal Lecter in charge of her shearing and had hired the special effects team from Night of the Living Dead to bandage her.

Her hand reached up and took a strand of his hair between her fingers. “Simple as that.” She gently pulled on that curl and let it go. “It’s so springy.” They’d barely grazed at the truth, but I she was satisfied—and distracted. By his hair, of all things. “I feel like a sheep that has been overlooked during spring shearing,” he murmured. “Yes, adorably fluffy.” Another time he might have protested the use of that adjective. But now he was all too relieved. “Would you like me to pull my chair closer, so you may fondle my hair with greater ease?” he asked. She beamed at him. “Why, yes, I’d like exactly that.

Joliffe knew their audience was with them when Christ declared at the money-changers, "You knaves! You thieves and rascals! Defaming the Lord God's honor as you do! Making his house into a den of thieves and taking what is not yours to take, like shepherds never shearing but butchering every sheep!" and among the lookers-on heads turned and some people pointed at Father Hewgo standing at his church door, glaring, his arms tightly folded aross his chest, well apart from it all but making sure his disapproval lowered over everything. Joliffe had not written the lines at him but might as well have because his parishioners surely saw a match; there was even scattered laughter that would do nothing to soften him toward the players.

And God did not just ask for the perfect sheep; He also wanted its wool. Deuteronomy 18:4 instructs shepherds to give the first shearing of the sheep as on offering to God. Above the crackling warmth radiating from the stove, I read the verse aloud to Lynne. "Is a first shearing a once-in-a-lifetime offering?" I asked. "Yes, everybody wants the first shearing, especially if it's from one of your best lambs. The first shearing is the finest fleese that's used to the best clothes...to ask for that is a real sacrifice." ... For the first time in a long while, maybe ever, I had felt with my own hands what God desired from sacrifice. It was nothing like what I expected...In asking for the first fleece, God isn't asking for the biggest. He wants to smallest and the softest. He doesn't want more-He wants the best." -Scouting the Divine

The whole day of Bel Tine would be taken up with singing and dancing and feasting, with time out for footraces, and contests in almost everything. Prizes would be given not only in archery, but for the best with the sling, and the quarterstaff. There would be contests at solving riddles and puzzles, at the rope tug, and lifting and tossing weights, prizes for the best singer, the best dancer and the best fiddle player, for the quickest to shear a sheep, even the best at bowls, and at darts.

Loving the Hands I could make a wardrobe with tufts of wool caught on thistle and bracken. Lost - the scraps I might have woven whole cloth. "Come watch," the man says, shearing sheep with the precision of long practice, fleece, removed all of a piece, rolled in a neat bundle. I've been so clumsy with people people who've loved me. Straddling a ewe, the man props its head on his foot, leans down with clippers, each pass across the coat a caress. His dogs, lying nearby, tremble at every move - as I do, loving the hands that have learned to gentle the life beneath them.

That was my life until Stregobor and that whore Aridea ordered a huntsman to butcher me in the forest and bring back my heart and liver. Lovely, don't you think?” “No. I’m pleased you evaded the huntsman, Renfri.” “Like shit I did. He took pity on me and let me go. After the son of a bitch raped me and robbed me.” Geralt, fiddling with his medallion, looked her straight in the eyes. She didn't lower hers. “That was the end of the princess,” she continued. “The dress grew torn, the cambric grew grubby. And then there was dirt, hunger, stench, stink and abuse. Selling myself to any old bum for a bowl of soup or a roof over my head. Do you know what my hair was like? Silk. And it reached a good foot below my hips. I had it cut right to the scalp with sheep-shears when I caught lice. It's never grown back properly.” She was silent for a moment, idly brushing the uneven strands of hair from her forehead. “I stole rather than starve to death. I killed to avoid being killed myself. I was locked in prisons which stank of urine, never knowing if they would hang me in the morning, or just flog me and release me. And through it all, my stepmother and your sorcerer were hard on my heels, with their poisons and assassins and spells. And

The agricultural and pastoral character of the people upon whom the town depended for its existence was shown by the class of objects displayed in the shop windows. Scythes, reap-hooks, sheep-shears, bill-hooks, spades, mattocks, and hoes at the iron-monger’s; bee-hives, butter-firkins, churns, milking stools and pails, hay-rakes, field-flagons, and seed-lips at the cooper’s; cart-ropes and plough-harness at the saddler’s; carts, wheel-barrows, and mill-gear at the wheelwright’s and machinist’s, horse-embrocations at the chemist’s; at the glover’s and leather-cutter’s, hedging-gloves, thatchers’ knee-caps, ploughmen’s leggings, villagers’ pattens and clogs.

For what is in this world but grief and woe? O God! methinks it were a happy life To be no better than a homely swain; To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes how they run- How many makes the hour full complete, How many hours brings about the day, How many days will finish up the year, How many years a mortal man may live. When this is known, then to divide the times- So many hours must I tend my flock; So many hours must I take my rest; So many hours must I contemplate; So many hours must I sport myself; So many days my ewes have been with young; So many weeks ere the poor fools will can; So many years ere I shall shear the fleece: So minutes, hours, days, months, and years, Pass'd over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely! Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy To kings that fear their subjects' treachery? O yes, it doth; a thousand-fold it doth. And to conclude: the shepherd's homely curds, His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle, His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade, All which secure and sweetly he enjoys, Is far beyond a prince's delicates- His viands sparkling in a golden cup, His body couched in a curious bed, When care, mistrust, and treason waits on him.

A fresh following wind streamed off the smoke to the northward; the late sun shone pale and clear. And then, as we stood in to westward of Kalliste, we saw the dreadful thing that the god had done. Half of the island was clean gone, sheared off from the hilltops straight down into the sea; and in place of the smoking mountain there was nothing. The god had carried it all away, all that great height of rock and earth and forest, the goat pastures and the olive groves and the orchards and the vineyards, the sheep pens and the houses, gone, all gone; nothing was there but water, a great curved bay below huge sheer cliffs, where wreckage floated; and outside the bay, by itself on a horn of land, a little mound pouring out smoke, all that was left of Hephaistos’ lofty chimney.

We do have some strong traditions of community in the United States, but it’s interesting to me that our traditionally patriotic imagery in this country celebrates the individual, the solo flier, independence. We celebrate Independence Day; we don’t celebrate We Desperately Rely on Others Day. Oh, I guess that’s Mother’s Day [laughter]. It does strike me that our great American mythology tends to celebrate separate achievement and separateness, when in fact nobody does anything alone. Nobody in this auditorium is wearing clothing that you made yourself from sheep that you sheared and wool that you spun. It’s ridiculous to imagine that we don’t depend on others for the most ordinary parts of our existence, let alone the more traumatic parts when we need a surgeon or someone to put out the fire in our home. In everyday ways we are a part of a network. I guess it’s a biological way of seeing the world. And I don’t understand the suggestion that interdependence is a weakness. Animals don’t pretend to be independent from others of their kind—I mean no other animal but us. It seems like something we should get over [laughter].

Around the glade this pair of woodland nymphs danced. He swept her in a waltz to a duet that was sometimes off tune, sometimes rent with giggling and laughter as they made their own music. A breathless Erienne fell to a sun-dappled hummock of deep, soft moss, and laughing for the pure thrill of the day, she spread her arms, creating a comely yellow-hued flower on the dark green sward while seeming every bit as fragile as a blossom to the man who watched her. With bliss-bedazzled eyes, she gazed through the treetops overhead where swaying branches, bedecked in the first bright green of spring, caressed the underbellies of the freshlet zephyrs, and the fleecy white clouds raced like frolicking sheep across an azure lea. Small birds played courting games, and the earlier ones tended nests with single-minded perseverance. A sprightly squirrel leapt across the spaces, and a larger one followed, bemused at the sudden coyness of his mate. Christopher came to Erienne and sank to his knees on the thick, soft carpet, then bracing his hands on either side of her, slowly lowered himself until his chest touched her bosom. For a long moment he kissed those blushing lips that opened to him and welcomed him with an eagerness that belied the once-cool maid. Then he lifted her arm and lay beside her, keeping her hand in his as he shared her viewpoint of the day. They whispered sweet inanities, talked of dreams, hopes, and other things, as lovers are wont to do. Erienne turned on her side and taking care to keep her hand in the warm nest, ran her other fingers through his tousled hair. “You need a shearing, milord,” she teased. He rolled his head until he could look up into those amethyst eyes. “And does my lady see me as an innocent lamb ready to be clipped?” At her doubtful gaze, he questioned further. “Or rather a lusting, long-maned beast? A zealous suitor come to seduce you?” Erienne’s eyes brightened, and she nodded quickly to his inquiry. “A love-smitten swain? A silver-armored knight upon a white horse charging down to rescue you?” “Aye, all of that,” she agreed through a giggle. She came to her knees and grasped his shirt front with both hands. “All of that and more.” She bent to place a honeyed kiss upon his lips, then sitting back, spoke huskily. “I see you as my husband, as the father of my child, as my succor against the storm, protector of my home, and lord of yonder manse. But most of all, I see you as the love of my life.” -Erienne & Christopher

One mode of anti-frontier and anti-self-reliance propaganda is contemporary hysteria about gun control – a part of the materialistic determinism of the hour. To the superficial minds of “Liberals,” collectivists, Marxians, et al., instruments are supposed to act upon man, and men (no longer self-reliant) merely to be acted upon: to them, murder lies in the gun and not in the soul of man. So they think that to deprive men of guns would prevent man from murder! “What the Power Boys – the insiders – behind the gun controls really want, of course, is not to control guns but to control us. They want registration so that they can confiscate; they want to confiscate so that they will have power and we shall be powerless – even as we live today upon a wild frontier demanding ever more self-reliance. “On the old frontier, men had to rely upon themselves and had to be armed until there were sound laws and until law-enforcement officers could enforce the laws. Today laws against thieves, muggers, thugs, rapist, arsonists, looters, murderers (thanks largely to the “Liberal” majority on the Supreme Court) are diluted almost to the point of abolition; the Marshal Dillons of the world, thanks to the same Court, are disarmed or emasculated, they are told to respect the “rights” of thieves, muggers, thugs, rapists, arsonists, looters, muggers, above the right of good citizens to be secure from such felons. “Good citizens, deprived of the processes of the law or the protection of the police, are supposed to accept their lot as the passive happy victims of “the unfortunate,” sheep to be sheared of feed to the wolves bleating about the loveliness of it all. It is “violence” if good citizens defend themselves; it is not “violent” but “protest” if they or their property are assaulted. So gun controls are the order of the day – gun controls that will disarm me of good will, but will not disarm the Mafia, the mobs out on a spree, the wolves on the prowl, the men of ill will. “This is a part of the “Liberal” sentimentality that does not see sin, evil, violence, as realities in the soul of man. To the “Liberal,” all we need is dialogue, discussion, compromise, co-existence, understanding – always in favor of the vicious and never in defense of the victim. The sentimental “Liberal,” fearful of self-reliant man, believes this to be a good thing; the cynical Power Boys pretend to believe it, and use it for their own ends. “Gun control is the new Prohibition. It will not work, as Prohibition did not work. But meanwhile, it will be tried, as a sentimental cure-all, a new usurpation of the rights of a once thoroughly self-reliant people, another step on the march to 1984. It is only a symptom of our modern disease, but it is well worth examining at a little more length. And, as I recently made a trip to the land of Sentimentalia, and brought back a published account of gun control there, I hope you will permit me to offer it as evidence speaking to our condition: “A few hundred of the several hundred million citizens of Sentimentalia have in recent years been shot by criminals. The Congress of that land, led by Senators Tom Prodd and Jokey Hidings, and egged on by the President, responded with a law to first register, and eventually confiscate, all the wicked instruments known as ‘guns.’ The law was passed amid tears of joy. “But, alas, when guns continued to be used by the happy thugs thus freed from the fear of being shot by self-reliant citizens, the Prohibitionists claimed that this meant that knives need to be forbidden… and then violence and murders would end.

A day trip to a local farm ended in disaster when the geography teacher was herded into a sheep dip and all his hair was sheared off. It was slightly preferable to the previous year when the pupils had attached him to the milking machine.

Today, some farms actually collect fleece without using any shears at all by injecting a protein growth factor into the sheep’s skin. This factor causes the hair to fracture in the deep follicle, allowing the fleece to peel off without scissors or clippers—a very high-tech approach.

But for the past few days he had spoken to them about only one thing: the girl, the daughter of a merchant who lived in the village they would reach in about four days. He had been to the village only once, the year before. The merchant was the proprietor of a dry goods shop, and he always demanded that the sheep be sheared in his presence, so that he would not be cheated. A friend had told the boy about the shop, and he had taken his sheep there.

By early afternoon it started to rain, and with the sheep wool soaking wet, it was too difficult to shear. The men did other work instead, until the downpour became too mighty, halting everything. The Blue Lizard Cave was the only option left–a welcome one at that–and most of the men left for the pub.

I was no more than another sheep to her, waiting to be sheared and bred.

How long will I be working the farm?” “Eight days.” Eight days? Shearing sheep and shoveling shit? Is she serious? I guess every assignment can’t be champagne and Boujis.

Upsherin He was three when he had his first haircut, upsherin it is called, from the Yiddish, ‘to shear off’. Until then the goyim would compliment the boy’s mother saying, ’What a beautiful girl you have!’ His mom would half-smile to endorse the approval, avoiding eye contact with the gentile, lest she be accused of immodesty or, chas v'shalom, flirtation. His hair was fleeced in a five clear-cut buzzings like a sheep in a shearing contest at the Iowa State Fair. Now the boy can look forward to growing his payot, long sidelocks that hang in curls or ringlets, which Hashem will use to pull His righteous sons to Heaven.

Stuck I sit at the door of of your heart and hard as I try, I can't walk in. Studying with the yoga masters, I've stretched my eight limbs with Ashtanga, and still get jammed at the portal. I've shvitzed for hours in a Swedish sauna, shedding pounds like sheep at a shearing, and still can't squeeze through. Believing all I would need is magic, I've dislocated my shoulders like Houdini, but I still get stuck at the door. I mused that maybe it's my bloated ego that gets me stuck. So I gave up bits of myself in small sacrifices, each bringing me closer, and now I fit snugly inside you, perfectly at peace like a swaddled Russian doll.

David had asked Saul for split residence between Gibeah and Bethlehem. He would be gone to shear sheep in the summer months, and during lambing, as well as harvest, when all other hands were needed in the fields. Also, many of his older brothers would be conscripted in the military. Michal already dreaded David’s absence and he had not even moved in yet.

The ten messengers looked like warriors more than messengers, so Nabal surrounded himself with his bodyguard of twenty men to receive the visitors. “Shalom be upon your house, Nabal of Maon,” said the lead messenger. “My name is Joab, and this is my brother Abishai. We serve our lord, David ben Jesse.” Abishai nodded respectfully, as did the nine others with them. Nabal eyed them suspiciously. The leader named Joab had a nasty scar down his forehead and cheek that made him appear like a devious wolf. Joab continued, “Our lord understands that you are shearing your sheep now in Carmel.” Nabal replied with sarcasm, “I can readily see your lord takes such dedicated interest in my property. So important is it to him that he sends his warriors instead of messengers.” “We are warriors, it is true,” said Joab. “But we come in peace. We have watched over your shepherds for these past weeks and have done them no harm. Indeed, we have protected them from hostile outsiders, so that not a sheep has been taken.” Nabal knew exactly where this was going. He continued his sarcastic drawl, “What a privilege indeed is such peace. And what do I owe this son of Jesse for such unrequested protection?” Joab said, “May my lord find favor in your eyes. For a feast day is upon us. He only asks whatever food and drink you may spare for your servants and your son, David.” “My son, no less,” said Nabal. “And how many does this ‘son’ of mine employ in this protection business of his?” “We are six hundred.

Common boys fight with wooden swords, too, only theirs are sticks and broken branches. Egg, these men may seem fools to you. They won’t know the proper names for bits of armor, or the arms of the great Houses, or which king it was who abolished the lord’s right to the first night… but treat them with respect all the same. You are a squire born of noble blood, but you are still a boy. Most of them will be men grown. A man has his pride, no matter how lowborn he may be. You would seem just as lost and stupid in their villages. And if you doubt that, go hoe a row and shear a sheep, and tell me the names of all the weeds and wildflowers in Wat’s Wood.

My grandmother uses the yucca soap to wash the sheep’s wool after she shears it every spring. She says it works better than anything else. Your hair won’t smell like lavender or roses when I’m done - but it’ll be clean. My grandmother says it will give you new energy, too.” “Your wise grandmother…I think about her every time I feed my chickens.” “Why?” There was a smile in his voice. “Well, you told me once how she had names for all her sheep, and she had so many! I named the chickens when I was a little girl, after my mother died. Somehow it made it easier to take care of them if I named them. I gave them names like Peter, Lucy, Edmund, and Susan after the characters in the Chronicles of Narnia. But your grandmother named her sheep names like ‘Bushy Rump’ and ‘Face like a Fish,’ and it always made me laugh when I thought about it.” “Hmm. The names do sound a little more poetic in Navajo,” Samuel replied, chuckling softly. “Sadly, I think ‘Bushy Rump’ and ‘Face like a Fish’ have died, but she has a new one named ‘Face like a Rump’ in honor of both.” I let out a long peel of laughter, and Samuel’s finger’s tightened in my hair. “Ahhh Josie, that sound should be bottled and sold.

In the United States, at the present time, we are trying to make an undemocratic constitution the vehicle of democratic rule. The Constitution was framed for one purpose while we are trying to use it for another." Students of the Constitution, from Woodrow Wilson down, know such to be the case. Victims of the Constitution, from the lowliest workingman up, know nothing of the sort. They believe in the Constitution. They believe it was made for them. Gentlemen of this sort should wake up. The Constitution of the United States was made for them in the same sense that sheep shears are made for sheep. The gentlemen who made the Constitution had sheep to shear. They belonged to a class. The class to which they belonged was the wealthy class. The wealthy class was by no means satisfied with the way things were going under the articles of confederation. Some of the sheep were getting away. Worse than that, they, were getting away with their fleeces on. Gentlemen who have sheep to shear are always pained at such a spectacle. We have the same sort of gentlemen with us to-day. They talk to-day — whenever sheep get away — as the rich men talked when the articles of confederation were in force.

The Battle of the Shearing Shed Ronald was a tough old ram, the biggest of his breed Daniel was a clipperman, renowned of shearing deed Many sheep were sheared that day and woolless they had fled Before those two met in affray and battled in the shed! Ronald, he had seen old Wallace wrestled to the floor, Mugged of his dignity and fleece, and knew that it was war And seeing that his turn was nigh, his hooves he dug in deep He'd fight and though perhaps he'd die, at least he'd die a sheep. Daniel had no time to waste, he'd quotas set to keep And unprepared, he reached in haste to take the waiting sheep But Ronald steeled himself as Daniel took him by the horn And, rearing, pulled himself away before he could be shorn. Off-balance, Daniel stumbled, to Ronald's great delight Onto his knees he tumbled as the shears flew out of sight And Ronald now unhanded felt his victory increase Protecting his sheep dignity and, likewise, his sheep fleece. But Daniel was not beaten yet, he knew that he'd faced worse His mind was still determined set, he rose up with a curse But still he was unsteady and Ronald was a ram His head was lowered ready and he charged the clipperman Ronald's head met Daniel's side and toppled him again This time headfirst and to collide his head against the grain. Leaving, stunned, the clipperman upon the wooden floor In final victory, the ram strolled out the open door. But, alas, 'tis not the way that sheep triumph at last And Daniel would not see the day that any sheep got past Despite Ram Ronald's victor's pride, the shearer would not yield So followed a less dignified pursuit around the field. Ronald, he was fast and he had four legs matched to two So Daniel was outclassed, if that was all that he could do, But he also had a sheepdog and so Ronald was defeated He would have had the victory, if Daniel hadn't cheated.

The Elizabethans used many more herbs than we do today, including those rarely seen in modern kitchens, such as hyssop, pennyroyal, tansy, and rue. According to a sixteenth-century nutrition guide, A Dyetary of Healthe, “There is no Herbe, nor weede, but God hae given vertue to them, to helpe man.” Puréed Carrots with Currants and Spices SERVES 6 Let me see; what am I to buy for our sheep-shearing feast?

He was the guy who set school records for the 100-yard dash and gentle sheep shearing.

The beauty was just mind-boggling for this English girl...It was like being in your own national park, but without the signs telling you what you're supposed to think.

Amarillo Slim, a gambling legend and 1972 World Series of Poker champion, said, “You can shear a sheep a hundred times, but you can skin it only once.

You can shear a sheep a hundred times, but you can skin it only once.

Curse the moment I met that old man, he thought. He had come into town only to find a woman who could interpret his dream. Neither the woman nor the old man was at all impressed by the fact that he was a shepherd. They were solitary individuals who no longer believed in things, and didn't understand that shepherds become attached to their sheep. He knew everything about each member of his flock: he knew which ones were lame, which one was to give birth two months form now, and which were the laziest. He knew how to shear them, and how to slaughter them. If he ever decided to leave them, they would suffer.

Across Europe, millions of people worked at home along with their whole families. If the mother and father wove cloth, the children worked too: a ten-year-old sorted cotton; a teenage daughter spun thread; an older son tended the sheep and sheared their wool. Even a toddler might help by winding thread carefully onto a roll! When the family finished making their cloth, they would travel to market and sell it, using the money to buy food and tools. In the summer, they might spend more time tending their garden plot of carrots, cabbages, and beans; in the winter, when frost covered the ground, the family would go back to making cloth all day long.

The boy mumbled an answer that allowed him to avoid responding to her question. He was sure the girl would never understand. He went on telling stories about his travels, and her bright, Moorish eyes went wide with fear and surprise. As the time passed, the boy found himself wishing that the day would never end, that her father would stay busy and keep him waiting for three days. He recognized that he was feeling something he had never experienced before: the desire to live in one place forever. With the girl with the raven hair, his days would never be the same again. But finally the merchant appeared, and asked the boy to shear four sheep. He paid for the wool and asked the shepherd to come back the following year. And

do not be bold. You can butcher the sheep only once. But if you are careful, you can shear the sheep every year.

The man wandered over to the table, crinkling his face. He still put on his old man look, from which he had when he died. "The last thing I remember I was shearing some sheep and . . . wait . . . I was choking on some wool." His hand went to his throat as if he still had it in there and his mouth gaped open in shock.

No, Donald, precious, people are sheep. They were made to be sheared. They love to worship public officials who play politics. Every eight years, the people swallow some politician hook, line, and sinker and make him president. They hold him on the political stomach for about six years. Then they commence to get indigestion because the politicians quit pouring the soda bicarbonate of publicity into their stomachs. At the end of eight years, they vomit him up in order to swallow someone else, and the process is repeated. “Why,

Using Shears To Pick Up Sticks – Among they’re many uses. Shears have more uses other than shearing sheep. You can also use them to shear mushrooms off cows and use them to pick up sticks that you find lying around.