A Bountiful Harvest of Sheep

It was a downright balmy day in Sheepton. The sun was shining -- nay, beaming; smiling, even -- and the wide, obtrusive deposits of snow were beginning to melt. Paths that had been blocked by increasingly large obstacles were becoming accessible once more, and the ice was melting away with enthusiasm. It was still the heart of winter by anyone's calendar, but somehow it felt positively like springtime. Perhaps a warm pocket of air had gotten lost from its equatorial brethren and wandered, confused and alone, up to these more temperate climates. Whatever the reason, dormant bulbs were starting to poke out their heads, dipping a toe into the water, as it were, and the settlers of Sheepton awoke on a morning unlike any they had seen in quite some time.

The mayor of Sheepton -- a man named Rutherford D. Hingham, a well-loved official with a kind heart for the ovine and a keen mind for urban development -- was, perhaps, more excited than most by this luxurious day. He sprang from his bed and bounded to the window with great vigor. "Look at it!" he called to his wife, Katheryn, who had been roused by his vigorous leap, "What a brilliant day! Exactly what we've needed! With the ice thawed, we'll be able to give it the final push!"

"Lovely, dear," said Katheryn, "will you be wanting tea, then?"

"No time for tea!" Rutherford cried, and, changing from his striped pajamas into his overalls, he dashed from the house and into the town square.

Scaffolding surrounded the town hall on every side, an exoskeleton of wooden planks and braces that had been iced over for weeks, making it too dangerous to climb. Work had been halted when the first storm had hit, and had been unable to resume as the snow had piled up. Now the ice and snow were gone, and the mayor -- always one to lead by example -- grabbed his bag of tools and climbed, thanking the Fates for this good fortune, and the sound of his hammer nailing new shingles onto the roof began to raise some attention. Heads poked out of windows and doorways, and smiles began to spread across the faces of the settlers like a pandemic. A carpenter named Thomas Forrester hoisted himself gracefully up the wooden ladder and joined the mayor on the roof; Jedidiah Oreman, a mason, took up his chisel and went to work on the pylons flanking the front door; and soon, the whole structure was alive with the sounds of hard work and good cheer.

Around midday, a young shepherd named Theodore Ovison strode into the square and cupped his hands around his grinning mouth. "Oy, Mister mayor, sir!" he called. "Mister mayor, I've got news!" A murmur ran through the swarm of men, and Rutherford poked his head out through one of the large open windows. He wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow. "My good man Teddy! What news d'you have? Any word on the sheep trades?"

"That's exactly it, sir!" he cried. "I've just come from the markets. The gods must have been rolling with luck in their fingers! With the flocks we had, and the demand for sheep at West Port, we were able to trade for twice as many supplies as usual! We have everything we need!" The meek shepherd was standing taller than ever before. With a sweeping gesture of his hand, he stepped aside just as a ox-drawn cart appeared at the end of the main road, loaded heavily with wood and ore and many other things, a veritable gold mine of supplies. As he drank in this miraculous view, Rutherford's smile widened -- if that were even possible -- into a grin that strained every muscle in his exuberant face. But he didn't care. At this moment, he could endure anything.

The settlers set to work with renewed strength, a spirit of purpose jumping like electricity from one heart to the next, (not that they knew what electricity was). They dug in with the mind and soul: Jacob Cobbles setting flattened slabs of stone into the new Main Street; Margaret Payne fitting new glass windows into their openings; Kenneth Steele fitting the ironwork into the great new doors. Around three in the afternoon, Richard Piper announced that he was finished laying the plumbing system, and everyone took a five minute break to flush their homes' new water closets. A resounding cry of excitement echoed through the streets.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, and the last piece of scaffolding was taken down, Mayor Hingham wiped a bead of sweat from his brow with a handkerchief and turned to address the expectant faces of settlers who had gathered in the square. The excited murmur died down; all eyes were on the mayor.

"Today," he began, "we have changed. Today the Fates smiled upon us, and we have prospered because of it. We came together, each man and woman here today, and we grew. Where once there stood farms and thatched roof huts, now there stand halls, and businesses, and homes. No longer will we be a mere settlement, scraping our resources together one by one; from now on we will produce great harvests, and our flocks will multiply. Today," the mayor's voice swelled with deep pride, "we have moved into a great city, and we shall prosper.

Welcome to Sheeptonopolis."