Letty watches from afar. She can’t play with the other lambs, her legs are crooked and weak.
“That one’s useless,” glowers Farmer Blenkinsop. “She’s for the meat works.”
“No, dear,” Mrs Blenkinsop chides. “I have a use for her.”
“It’s a real lamb,” little ones whisper as Mrs Blenkinsop carries Letty to the altar’s nativity scene. She lays her next to the Baby Jesus. “Away in a Manger,” voices warble.
Letty nibbles at the manger’s hay, licks the baby’s porcelain face.
The congregation gasps as her fleece radiates a warm glow.
“Ma-ah,” she bleats, rising on strong, straight limbs.
“That one’s useless,” glowers Farmer Blenkinsop. “She’s for the meat works.”
“No, dear,” Mrs Blenkinsop chides. “I have a use for her.”
“It’s a real lamb,” little ones whisper as Mrs Blenkinsop carries Letty to the altar’s nativity scene. She lays her next to the Baby Jesus. “Away in a Manger,” voices warble.
Letty nibbles at the manger’s hay, licks the baby’s porcelain face.
The congregation gasps as her fleece radiates a warm glow.
“Ma-ah,” she bleats, rising on strong, straight limbs.
