The woodman sang of the wild forest; the plowman
sang of the fields; the shepherd sang of his sheep; and those who
listened forgot about the storm and the cold weather.
But in the corner, almost hidden from his fellows, one poor man was
sitting who did not enjoy the singing. It was Caedmon, the
cowherd. "What shall I do when it comes my turn?" he said to himself.
"I
do not know any song. My voice is harsh and I cannot sing."
So he sat there trembling and afraid; for he was a timid, bashful man
and did not like to be noticed.
At last, just as the blacksmith was in the midst of a stirring song,
he rose quietly and went out into the darkness. He went across the
narrow yard to the sheds where the cattle were kept in stormy weather.
"The gentle cows will not ask a song of me," said the poor man. He
soon found a warm corner, and there he lay down, covering himself with
the straw.
Inside of the great kitchen, beside the fire, the men were shouting
and laughing; for the blacksmith had finished his song, and it was
very pleasing.
"Who is next?" asked the woodman.
"Caedmon, the keeper of the cows," answered the chief cook.
"Yes, Caedmon! Caedmon!" all shouted together.
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