{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_28990/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_28990","id":"gutenberg_28990","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/28990","summary":null,"tags":["Animals -- Folklore","Category: Children & Young Adult Reading","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Christian saints -- Legends"],"text":"Produced by Suzanne Shell, Emmy and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was\nproduced from images generously made available by The\nInternet Archive/American Libraries.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nBy Abbie Farwell Brown\n\n\n         THE STAR JEWELS AND OTHER WONDERS. Illustrated.\n           Square 12mo, $1.00.\n\n         THE FLOWER PRINCESS. Illustrated. Sq. 12mo, $1.00.\n\n         THE CURIOUS BOOK OF BIRDS. Illustrated. Square\n           12mo, $1.10, _net_. Postpaid, $1.21.\n\n         A POCKETFUL OF POSIES. Illustrated. 12mo, $1.00,\n           _net_. Postpaid, $1.09.\n\n         IN THE DAYS OF GIANTS. Illustrated. 12mo, $1.10,\n           _net_. Postpaid, $1.21. _School edition_, 50 cents,\n           _net_, postpaid.\n\n         THE BOOK OF SAINTS AND FRIENDLY BEASTS.\n           Illustrated, 12mo, $1.25.\n\n         THE LONESOMEST DOLL. Illustrated. Sq. 12mo, 85\n           cents, _net_. Postpaid, 95 cents.\n\n\n          HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.\n          BOSTON AND NEW YORK\n\n\n\n\nTHE BOOK OF SAINTS AND FRIENDLY BEASTS\n\n[Illustration: ST. BRIDGET & THE KING'S WOLF]\n\n\n          THE BOOK OF SAINTS\n          AND FRIENDLY BEASTS\n          BY ABBIE FARWELL\n          BROWN. ILLUSTRATED\n          BY FANNY Y. CORY\n\n[Illustration]\n\n          HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND CO.\n          BOSTON AND NEW YORK\n\n\n          COPYRIGHT 1900 BY ABBIE FARWELL BROWN, ALL RIGHTS\n          RESERVED\n\n\nIN LOVING MEMORY OF A FRIENDLY BEAST\n\n\n\n\n          BROTHER, HAST THOU NEVER LEARNED IN HOLY WRIT,\n          THAT WITH HIM WHO HAS LED HIS LIFE AFTER GOD'S\n          WILL THE WILD BEASTS AND WILD BIRDS ARE TAME?\n\n                                  SAINT GUTHLAC OF CROWLAND\n\n\n\n_IN the old legends there may be things which some folk nowadays find it\nhard to believe. But surely the theme of each is true. It is not hard to\nsee how gentle bodies who had no other friends should make comrades of\nthe little folk in fur and fins and feathers. For, as St. Francis knew\nso well, all the creatures are our little brothers, ready to meet\nhalfway those who will but try to understand. And this is a truth which\nevery one to-day, even tho' he be no Saint, is waking up to learn. The\nhappenings are set down quite as they read in the old books. Veritable\nhistories, like those of St. Francis and St. Cuthbert, ask no addition\nof color to make them real. But sometimes, when a mere line of legend\nremained to hint of some dear Saint's relation with his friendly Beast,\nthe story has been filled out in the way that seemed most likely to be\ntrue. For so alone could the old tale be made alive again. So all one's\nbest is dressing old words new._\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n                                                 PAGE\n          Saint Bridget and the King's Wolf         1\n\n          Saint Gerasimus and the Lion             11\n\n          Saint Keneth of the Gulls                30\n\n          Saint Launomar's Cow                     42\n\n          Saint Werburgh and her Goose             53\n\n          The Ballad of Saint Athracta's Stags     69\n\n          Saint Kentigern and the Robin            77\n\n          Saint Blaise and his Beasts              88\n\n          Saint Cuthbert's Peace                   95\n\n          The Ballad of Saint Felix               108\n\n          Saint Fronto's Camels                   114\n\n          The Blind Singer, Saint Herve           126\n\n          Saint Comgall and the Mice              148\n\n          The Wonders of Saint Berach             156\n\n          Saint Prisca, the Child Martyr          166\n\n          The Fish who helped Saint Gudwall       176\n\n          The Ballad of Saint Giles and the Deer  183\n\n          The Wolf-Mother of Saint Ailbe          190\n\n          Saint Rigobert's Dinner                 199\n\n          Saint Francis of Assisi                 211\n\n          A Calendar of Saints' Days              226\n\n_The legend of Saint Fronto's Camels originally appeared in_ The\nChurchman.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BOOK OF SAINTS AND FRIENDLY BEASTS\n\n\n\n\nSAINT BRIDGET AND THE KING'S WOLF\n\n\nEVERY one has heard of Bridget, the little girl saint of Ireland. Her\nname is almost as well known as that of Saint Patrick, who drove all the\nsnakes from the Island. Saint Bridget had long golden hair; and she was\nvery beautiful. Many wonderful things happened to her that are written\nin famous books. But I suspect that you never heard what she did about\nthe King's Wolf. It is a queer story.\n\nThis is how it happened. The King of Ireland had a tame wolf which some\nhunters had caught for him when it was a wee baby. And this wolf ran\naround as it pleased in the King's park near the palace, and had a very\ngood time. But one morning he got over the high wall which surrounded\nthe park, and strayed a long distance from home, which was a foolish\nthing to do. For in those days wild wolves were hated and feared by the\npeople, whose cattle they often stole; and if a man could kill a wicked\nwolf he thought himself a very smart fellow indeed. Moreover, the King\nhimself had offered a prize to any man who should bring him a dead wolf.\nFor he wanted his kingdom to be a peaceful, happy one, where the\nchildren could play in the woods all day without fear of big eyes or big\nteeth.\n\nOf course you can guess what happened to the King's wolf? A big, silly\ncountry fellow was going along with his bow and arrows, when he saw a\ngreat brown beast leap over a hedge and dash into the meadow beyond. It\nwas only the King's wolf running away from home and feeling very frisky\nbecause it was the first time that he had done such a thing. But the\ncountry fellow did not know all that.\n\n\"Aha!\" he said to himself. \"I'll soon have you, my fine wolf; and the\nKing will give me a gold piece that will buy me a hat and a new suit of\nclothes for the holidays.\" And without stopping to think about it or to\nlook closely at the wolf, who had the King's mark upon his ear, the\nfellow shot his arrow straight as a string. The King's wolf gave one\ngreat leap into the air and then fell dead on the grass, poor fellow.\n\nThe countryman was much pleased. He dragged his prize straight up to the\nKing's palace and thumped on the gate.\n\n\"Open!\" he cried. \"Open to the valiant hunter who has shot a wolf for\nthe King. Open, that I may go in to receive the reward.\"\n\nSo, very respectfully, they bade him enter; and the Lord Chamberlain\nescorted him before the King himself, who sat on a great red-velvet\nthrone in the Hall. In came the fellow, dragging after him by the tail\nthe limp body of the King's wolf.\n\n\"What have we here?\" growled the King, as the Lord Chamberlain made a\nlow bow and pointed with his staff to the stranger. The King had a bad\ntemper and did not like to receive callers in the morning. But the silly\ncountryman was too vain of his great deed to notice the King's\ndisagreeable frown.\n\n\"You have here a wolf, Sire,\" he said proudly. \"I have shot for you a\nwolf, and I come to claim the promised reward.\"\n\nBut at this unlucky moment the King started up with an angry cry. He had\nnoticed his mark on the wolf's right ear.\n\n\"Ho! Seize the villain!\" he shouted to his soldiers. \"He has slain my\ntame wolf; he has shot my pet! Away with him to prison; and to-morrow he\ndies.\"\n\nIt was useless for the poor man to scream and cry and try to explain\nthat it was all a mistake. The King was furious. His wolf was killed,\nand the murderer must die.\n\nIn those days this was the way kings punished men who displeased them in\nany way. There were no delays; things happened very quickly. So they\ndragged the poor fellow off to a dark, damp dungeon and left him there\nhowling and tearing his hair, wishing that wolves had never been saved\nfrom the flood by Noah and his Ark.\n\nNow not far from this place little Saint Bridget lived. When she chose\nthe beautiful spot for her home there were no houses near, only a great\noak-tree, under which she built her little hut. It had but one room and\nthe roof was covered with grass and straw. It seemed almost like a\ndoll's playhouse, it was so small; and Bridget herself was like a big,\ngolden-haired wax doll,--the prettiest doll you ever saw.\n\nShe was so beautiful and so good that people wanted to live near her,\nwhere they could see her sweet face often and hear her voice. When they\nfound where she had built her cell, men came flocking from all the\ncountry round about with their wives and children and their household\ngoods, their cows and pigs and chickens; and camping on the green grass\nunder the great oak-tree they said, \"We will live here, too, where Saint\nBridget is.\"\n\nSo house after house was built, and a village grew up about her little\ncell; and for a name it had _Kildare_, which in Irish means \"Cell of the\nOak.\" Soon Kildare became so fashionable that even the King must have a\npalace and a park there. And it was in this park that the King's wolf\nhad been killed.\n\nNow Bridget knew the man who had shot the wolf, and when she heard into\nwhat terrible trouble he had fallen she was very sorry, for she was a\nkind-hearted little girl. She knew he was a silly fellow to shoot the\ntame wolf; but still it was all a mistake, and she thought he ought not\nto be punished so severely. She wished that she could do something to\nhelp him, to save him if possible. But this seemed difficult, for she\nknew what a bad temper the King had; and she also knew how proud he had\nbeen of that wolf, who was the only tame one in all the land.\n\nBridget called for her coachman with her chariot and pair of white\nhorses, and started for the King's palace, wondering what she should do\nto satisfy the King and make him release the man who had meant to do no\nharm.\n\nBut lo and behold! as the horses galloped along over the Irish bogs of\npeat, Saint Bridget saw a great white shape racing towards her. At first\nshe thought it was a dog. But no: no dog was as large as that. She soon\nsaw that it was a wolf, with big eyes and with a red tongue lolling out\nof his mouth. At last he overtook the frightened horses, and with a\nflying leap came plump into the chariot where Bridget sat, and crouched\nat her feet, quietly as a dog would. He was no tame wolf, but a wild\none, who had never before felt a human being's hand upon him. Yet he let\nBridget pat and stroke him, and say nice things into his great ear. And\nhe kept perfectly still by her side until the chariot rumbled up to the\ngate of the palace.\n\nThen Bridget held out her hand and called to him; and the great white\nbeast followed her quietly through the gate and up the stair and down\nthe long hall, until they stood before the red-velvet throne, where the\nKing sat looking stern and sulky.\n\nThey must have been a strange-looking pair, the little maiden in her\ngreen gown with her golden hair falling like a shower down to her knees;\nand the huge white wolf standing up almost as tall as she, his yellow\neyes glaring fiercely about, and his red tongue panting. Bridget laid\nher hand gently on the beast's head which was close to her shoulder, and\nbowed to the King. The King only sat and stared, he was so surprised at\nthe sight; but Bridget took that as a permission to speak.\n\n\"You have lost your tame wolf, O King,\" she said. \"But I have brought\nyou a better. There is no other tame wolf in all the land, now yours is\ndead. But look at this one! There is no white wolf to be found anywhere,\nand he is both tame and white. I have tamed him, my King. I, a little\nmaiden, have tamed him so that he is gentle as you see. Look, I can\npull his big ears and he will not snarl. Look, I can put my little hand\ninto his great red mouth, and he will not bite. Sire, I give him to you.\nSpare me then the life of the poor, silly man who unwittingly killed\nyour beast. Give his stupid life to me in exchange for this dear,\namiable wolf,\" and she smiled pleadingly.\n\nThe King sat staring first at the great white beast, wonderfully pleased\nwith the look of him, then at the beautiful maiden whose blue eyes\nlooked so wistfully at him. And he was wonderfully pleased with the look\nof them, too. Then he bade her tell him the whole story, how she had\ncome by the creature, and when, and where. Now when she had finished he\nfirst whistled in surprise, then he laughed. That was a good sign,--he\nwas wonderfully pleased with Saint Bridget's story, also. It was so\nstrange a thing for the King to laugh in the morning that the\nChamberlain nearly fainted from surprise; and Bridget felt sure that she\nhad won her prayer. Never had the King been seen in such a good humor.\nFor he was a vain man, and it pleased him mightily to think of owning\nall for himself this huge beast, whose like was not in all the land, and\nwhose story was so marvelous.\n\nAnd when Bridget looked at him so beseechingly, he could not refuse\nthose sweet blue eyes the request which they made, for fear of seeing\nthem fill with tears. So, as Bridget begged, he pardoned the countryman,\nand gave his life to Bridget, ordering his soldiers to set him free from\nprison. Then when she had thanked the King very sweetly, she bade the\nwolf lie down beside the red-velvet throne, and thenceforth be faithful\nand kind to his new master. And with one last pat upon his shaggy head,\nshe left the wolf and hurried out to take away the silly countryman in\nher chariot, before the King should have time to change his mind.\n\nThe man was very happy and grateful. But she gave him a stern lecture on\nthe way home, advising him not to be so hasty and so wasty next time.\n\n\"Sirrah Stupid,\" she said as she set him down by his cottage gate,\n\"better not kill at all than take the lives of poor tame creatures. I\nhave saved your life this once, but next time you will have to suffer.\nRemember, it is better that two wicked wolves escape than that one kind\nbeast be killed. We cannot afford to lose our friendly beasts, Master\nStupid. We can better afford to lose a blundering fellow like you.\" And\nshe drove away to her cell under the oak, leaving the silly man to think\nover what she had said, and to feel much ashamed.\n\nBut the King's new wolf lived happily ever after in the palace park; and\nBridget came often to see him, so that he had no time to grow homesick\nor lonesome.\n\n\n\n\nSAINT GERASIMUS AND THE LION\n\n\nI.\n\nONE fine morning Saint Gerasimus was walking briskly along the bank of\nthe River Jordan. By his side plodded a little donkey bearing on his\nback an earthen jar; for they had been down to the river together to get\nwater, and were taking it back to the monastery on the hill for the\nmonks to drink at their noonday meal.\n\nGerasimus was singing merrily, touching the stupid little donkey now and\nthen with a twig of olive leaves to keep him from going to sleep. This\nwas in the far East, in the Holy Land, so the sky was very blue and the\nground smelled hot. Birds were singing around them in the trees and\noverhead, all kinds of strange and beautiful birds. But suddenly\nGerasimus heard a sound unlike any bird he had ever known; a sound which\nwas not a bird's song at all, unless some newly invented kind had a bass\nvoice which ended in a howl. The little donkey stopped suddenly, and\nbracing his fore legs and cocking forward his long, flappy ears, looked\nafraid and foolish. Gerasimus stopped too. But he was so wise a man that\nhe could not look foolish. And he was too good a man to be afraid of\nanything. Still, he was a little surprised.\n\n\"Dear me,\" he said aloud, \"how very strange that sounded. What do you\nsuppose it was?\" Now there was no one else anywhere near, so he must\nhave been talking to himself. For he could never have expected that\ndonkey to know anything about it. But the donkey thought he was being\nspoken to, so he wagged his head, and said, \"He-haw!\" which was a very\nsilly answer indeed, and did not help Gerasimus at all.\n\nHe seized the donkey by the halter and waited to see what would happen.\nHe peered up and down and around and about, but there was nothing to be\nseen except the shining river, the yellow sand, a clump of bushes beside\nthe road, and the spire of the monastery peeping over the top of the\nhill beyond. He was about to start the donkey once more on his climb\ntowards home, when that sound came again; and this time he noticed that\nit was a sad sound, a sort of whining growl ending in a sob. It sounded\nnearer than before, and seemed to come from the clump of bushes.\nGerasimus and the donkey turned their heads quickly in that direction,\nand the donkey trembled all over, he was so frightened. But his master\nonly said, \"It must be a Lion!\"\n\nAnd sure enough: he had hardly spoken the word when out of the bushes\ncame poking the great head and yellow eyes of a lion. He was looking\nstraight at Gerasimus. Then, giving that cry again, he bounded out and\nstrode towards the good man, who was holding the donkey tight to keep\nhim from running away. He was the biggest kind of a lion, much bigger\nthan the donkey, and his mane was long and thick, and his tail had a\nyellow brush on the end as large as a window mop. But as he came\nGerasimus noticed that he limped as if he were lame. At once the Saint\nwas filled with pity, for he could not bear to see any creature suffer.\nAnd without any thought of fear, he went forward to meet the lion.\nInstead of pouncing upon him fiercely, or snarling, or making ready to\neat him up, the lion crouched whining at his feet.\n\n\"Poor fellow,\" said Gerasimus, \"what hurts you and makes you lame,\nbrother Lion?\"\n\nThe lion shook his yellow mane and roared. But his eyes were not fierce;\nthey were only full of pain as they looked up into those of Gerasimus\nasking for help. And then he held up his right fore paw and shook it to\nshow that this was where the trouble lay. Gerasimus looked at him\nkindly.\n\n\"Lie down, sir,\" he said just as one would speak to a big yellow dog.\nAnd obediently the lion charged. Then the good man bent over him, and\ntaking the great paw in his hand examined it carefully. In the soft\ncushion of the paw a long pointed thorn was piercing so deeply that he\ncould hardly find the end. No wonder the poor lion had roared with pain!\nGerasimus pulled out the thorn as gently as he could, and though it must\nhave hurt the lion badly he did not make a sound, but lay still as he\nhad been told. And when the thorn was taken out the lion licked\nGerasimus' hand, and looked up in his face as if he would say, \"Thank\nyou, kind man. I shall not forget.\"\n\nNow when the Saint had finished this good deed he went back to his\ndonkey and started on towards the monastery. But hearing the soft pad of\nsteps behind him he turned and saw that the great yellow lion was\nfollowing close at his heels. At first he was somewhat embarrassed, for\nhe did not know how the other monks would receive this big stranger. But\nit did not seem polite or kind to drive him away, especially as he was\nstill somewhat lame. So Gerasimus took up his switch of olive leaves and\ndrove the donkey on without a word, thinking that perhaps the lion would\ngrow tired and drop behind. But when he glanced over his shoulder he\nstill saw the yellow head close at his elbow; and sometimes he felt the\nhot, rough tongue licking his hand that hung at his side.\n\nSo they climbed the hill to the monastery. Some one had seen Gerasimus\ncoming with this strange attendant at his heels, and the windows and\ndoors were crowded with monks, their mouths and eyes wide open with\nastonishment, peering over one another's shoulders. From every corner of\nthe monastery they had run to see the sight; but they were all on\ntiptoe to run back again twice as quickly if the lion should roar or\nlash his tail. Now although Gerasimus knew that the house was full of\nstaring eyes expecting every minute to see him eaten up, he did not\nhurry or worry at all. Leisurely he unloaded the water-jar and put the\ndonkey in his stable, the lion following him everywhere he went. When\nall was finished he turned to bid the beast good-by. But instead of\ntaking the hint and departing as he was expected to, the lion crouched\nat Gerasimus' feet and licked his sandals; and then he looked up in the\nSaint's face and pawed at his coarse gown pleadingly, as if he said,\n\"Good man, I love you because you took the thorn out of my foot. Let me\nstay with you always to be your watch-dog.\" And Gerasimus understood.\n\n\"Well, if you wish to stay I am willing, so long as you are good,\" he\nsaid, and the lion leaped up and roared with joy so loudly that all the\nmonks who were watching tumbled over one another and ran away to their\ncells in a terrible fright, locking the doors behind them.\n\nGerasimus carried the water-jar into the empty kitchen, and the lion\nfollowed. After sniffing about the place to get acquainted, just as a\nkitten does in its new home, the lion lay down in front of the fire and\ncurled his head up on his paws, like the great big cat he was. And so\nafter a long sigh he went to sleep. Then Gerasimus had a chance to tell\nthe other monks all about it. At first they were timid and would not\nhear of keeping such a dangerous pet. But when they had all tiptoed down\nto the kitchen behind Gerasimus and had seen the big kitten asleep there\nso peacefully they were not quite so much afraid.\n\n\"I'll tell you what we will do,\" said the Abbot. \"If Brother Gerasimus\ncan make his friend eat porridge and herbs like the rest of us we will\nlet him join our number. He might be very useful,--as well as\nornamental,--in keeping away burglars and mice. But we cannot have any\nflesh-eating creature among us. Some of us are too fat and tempting, I\nfear,\" and he glanced at several of the roundest monks, who shuddered in\ntheir tight gowns. But the Abbot himself was the fattest of them all,\nand he spoke with feeling.\n\nSo it was decided. Gerasimus let the lion sleep a good long nap, to put\nhim in a fine humor. But when it came time for supper he mixed a bowl of\nporridge and milk and filled a big wooden platter with boiled greens.\nThen taking one dish in each hand he went up to the lion and set them in\nfront of his nose.\n\n\"Leo, Leo, Leo!\" he called coaxingly, just as a little girl would call\n\"Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!\" to her pet. The lion lifted up his head and\npurred, like a small furnace, for he recognized his friend's voice. But\nwhen he smelled the dishes of food he sniffed and made a horrid face,\nwrinkling up his nose and saying \"Ugh!\" He did not like the stuff at\nall. But Gerasimus patted him on the head and said, \"You had better eat\nit, Leo; it is all I have myself. Share and share alike, brother.\"\n\nThe lion looked at him earnestly, and then dipped his nose into the\nporridge with a grunt. He ate it all, and found it not so very bad. So\nnext he tried the greens. They were a poor dessert, he thought; but\nsince he saw that Gerasimus wanted him to eat them he finished the\ndish, and then lay down on the hearth feeling very tired.\n\nGerasimus was delighted, for he had grown fond of the lion and wanted to\nkeep him. So he hurried back to the dining hall and showed the empty\ndishes to the Abbot. That settled the lion's fate. Thenceforth he became\na member of the monastery. He ate with the other monks in the great\nhall, having his own private trencher and bowl beside Gerasimus. And he\ngrew to like the mild fare of the good brothers,--at least he never\nsought for anything different. He slept outside the door of his master's\ncell and guarded the monastery like a faithful watch-dog. The monks grew\nfond of him and petted him so that he lived a happy life on the hill,\nwith never a wish to go back to the desert with its thorns.\n\n\nII.\n\nWHEREVER Gerasimus went the lion went also. Best of all, Leo enjoyed\ntheir daily duty of drawing water from the river. For that meant a long\nwalk in the open air, and a frolic on the bank of the Jordan. One day\nthey had gone as usual, Gerasimus, the lion, and the stupid donkey who\nwas carrying the filled jar on his back. They were jogging comfortably\nhome, when a poor man came running out of a tiny hut near the river, who\nbegged Gerasimus to come with him and try to cure his sick baby. Of\ncourse the good man willingly agreed; this was one of the errands which\nhe loved best to do.\n\n\"Stay, brother,\" he commanded Leo, who wanted to go with him, \"stay and\nwatch the foolish donkey.\" And he went with the man, feeling sure that\nthe lion would be faithful. Now Leo meant to do his duty, but it was a\nhot and sleepy day, and he was very tired. He lay down beside the donkey\nand kept one eye upon him, closing the other one just for a minute. But\nthis is a dangerous thing to do. Before he knew it, the other eye began\nto wink; and the next moment Leo was sound asleep, snoring with his head\non his paws. Then it was that the silly donkey began to grow restless.\nHe saw a patch of grass just beyond that looked tempting, and he moved\nover to it. Then he saw a greener spot beyond that, and then another\nstill farther beyond that, till he had taken his silly self a long way\noff. And just then there came along on his way from Dan to Beersheba, a\nthief of a Camel Driver, with a band of horses and asses. He saw the\ndonkey grazing there with no one near, and he said to himself,--\n\n\"Aha! A fine little donkey. I will add him to my caravan and no one will\nbe the wiser.\" And seizing Silly by the halter, he first cut away the\nwater-jar, and then rode off with him as fast as he could gallop.\n\nNow the sound of pattering feet wakened Leo. He jumped up with a roar\njust in time to see the Camel Driver's face as he glanced back from the\ntop of the next hill. Leo ran wildly about sniffing for the donkey; but\nwhen he found that he had really disappeared, he knew the Camel Driver\nmust have stolen him. He was terribly angry. He stood by the water-jar\nand roared and lashed his tail, gnashing his jaws as he remembered the\nthief's wicked face.\n\nNow in the midst of his rage out came Gerasimus. He found Leo roaring\nand foaming at the mouth, his red-rimmed eyes looking very fierce. And\nthe donkey was gone--only the water-jar lay spilling on the ground. Then\nGerasimus made a great mistake. He thought that poor Leo had grown tired\nof being a vegetarian, of living upon porridge and greens, and had tried\nfresh donkey-meat for a change.\n\n\"Oh, you wicked lion!\" he cried, \"you have eaten poor Silly. What shall\nI do to punish you?\" Then Leo roared louder than ever with shame and\nsorrow. But he could not speak to tell how it had happened. The Saint\nwas very sad. Tears stood in his kind eyes. \"You will have to be donkey\nnow,\" he said; \"you will have to do his part of the work since he is now\na part of you. Come, stand up and let me fasten the water-jar upon your\nback.\" He spoke sternly and even switched Leo with his olive stick. Leo\nhad never been treated like this. He was the King of Beasts, and it was\nshame for a King to do donkey's work. His eyes flashed, and he had half\na mind to refuse and to run away. Then he looked at the good man and\nremembered how he had taken out that cruel thorn. So he hung his head\nand stood still to be harnessed in the donkey's place.\n\nSlowly and painfully Leo carried the water-jar up the hill. But worse\nthan all it was to feel that his dear master was angry with him.\nGerasimus told the story to the other monks, and they were even more\nangry than he had been, for they did not love Leo so well. They all\nagreed that Leo must be punished; so they treated him exactly as if he\nwere a mean, silly donkey. They gave him only oats and water to eat, and\nmade him do all Silly's work. They would no longer let him sleep outside\nhis master's door, but they tied him in a lonesome stall in the stable.\nAnd now he could not go to walk with Gerasimus free and happy as the\nKing of Beasts should be. For he went only in harness, with never a kind\nword from his master's lips.\n\nIt was a sad time for Leo. He was growing thinner and thinner. His mane\nwas rough and tangled because he had no heart to keep it smooth. And\nthere were several white hairs in his beautiful whiskers. He was fast\nbecoming melancholy; and the most pitiful beast in all the world is a\nmelancholy lion. He had been hoping that something would happen to show\nthat it was all a mistake; but it seemed as though the world was against\nhim, and truth was dead.\n\nIt was a sad time for Gerasimus, too; for he still loved Leo, though he\nknew the lion must be punished for the dreadful deed which he was\nbelieved to have done. One day he had to go some distance to a\nneighboring town to buy provisions. As usual, he took Leo with him to\nbring back the burden, but they did not speak all the way. Gerasimus had\ndone the errands which he had come to do, and was fastening the baskets\non each side of the lion's back. A group of children were standing\naround watching the queer sight,--a lion burdened like a donkey! And\nthey laughed and pointed their fingers at him, making fun of poor Leo.\n\nBut suddenly the lion growled and began to lash his tail, quivering like\na cat ready to spring on a mouse. The children screamed and ran away,\nthinking that he was angry with them for teasing him. But it was not\nthat. A train of camels was passing at the moment, and Leo had seen at\ntheir head a mean, wicked face which he remembered. And as the last of\nthe caravan went by, Leo caught sight of Silly himself, the missing\ndonkey of the monastery. At the sound of Leo's growl, Silly pricked up\nhis ears and stood on his fore legs, which is not a graceful position\nfor a donkey. Then the Camel Driver came running up to see what was the\nmatter with his stolen donkey. But when he came face to face with Leo,\nwhose yellow eyes were glaring terribly, the thief trembled and turned\npale. For he remembered the dreadful roar which had followed him that\nday as he galloped away across the sand holding Silly's halter. The poor\ndonkey was quivering with fear, thinking that this time he was surely\ngoing to be eaten piecemeal. But after all this trouble on Silly's\naccount, the very idea of tasting donkey made Leo sick. He only wanted\nto show Gerasimus what a mistake had been made.\n\nAll this time Gerasimus had been wondering what the lion's strange\nbehavior meant. But when he saw Leo seize the donkey's bridle, he began\nto suspect the truth. He ran up and examined the donkey carefully. Then\nLeo looked up in his face and growled softly, as if to say:--\n\n\"Here is your old donkey, safe and sound. You see I didn't eat him after\nall. _That_ is the real thief,\" and turning to the Camel Driver, he\nshowed his teeth and looked so fierce that the man hid behind a camel,\ncrying, \"Take away the lion! Kill the wicked lion!\" But Gerasimus seized\nSilly by the bridle.\n\n\"This is my beast,\" he said, \"and I shall lead him home with me. You\nstole him, Thief, and my noble lion has found you out,\" and he laid his\nhand tenderly on Leo's head.\n\n\"He is mine, you shall not have him!\" cried the Camel Driver, dodging\nout from behind the camel, and trying to drag the donkey away from\nGerasimus. But with a dreadful roar, Leo sprang upon him, and with his\ngreat paw knocked him down and sat upon his stomach.\n\n\"Do not hurt him, Leo,\" said Gerasimus gently. But to the Camel Driver\nhe was very stern. \"Look out, Sir Thief,\" he said, \"how you steal again\nthe donkey of an honest man. Even the yellow beasts of the desert know\nbetter than that, and will make you ashamed. Be thankful that you escape\nso easily.\"\n\nThen he took the baskets from Leo's back and bound them upon Silly, who\nwas glad to receive them once more from his own master's hands. For the\nCamel Driver had been cruel to him and had often beaten him. So he\nresolved never again to stray away as he had done that unlucky time. And\nwhen they were all ready to start, Gerasimus called Leo, and he got up\nfrom the chest of the Camel Driver, where he had been sitting all this\ntime, washing his face with his paws and smiling.\n\n\"My poor old Leo!\" said Gerasimus, with tears in his eyes, \"I have made\nyou suffer cruelly for a crime of which you were not guilty. But I will\nmake it up to you.\"\n\nThen happily the three set out for home, and all the way Gerasimus kept\nhis arm about the neck of his lion, who was wild with joy because he and\nhis dear master were friends once more, and the dreadful mistake was\ndiscovered.\n\nThey had a joyful reception at the monastery on the hill. Of course\nevery one was glad to see poor Silly again; but best of all it was to\nknow that their dear old lion was not a wicked murderer. They petted him\nand gave him so many good things to eat that he almost burst with\nfatness. They made him a soft bed, and all the monks took turns in\nscratching his chin for ten minutes at a time, which was what Leo loved\nbetter than anything else in the world.\n\nAnd so he dwelt happily with the good monks, one of the most honored\nbrothers of the monastery. Always together he and Gerasimus lived and\nslept and ate and took their walks. And at last after many, many years,\nthey grew old together, and very tired and sleepy. So one night\nGerasimus, who had become an Abbot, the head of the monastery, lay\ngently down to rest, and never woke up in the morning. But the great\nlion loved him so that when they laid Saint Gerasimus to sleep under a\nbeautiful plane-tree in the garden, Leo lay down upon the mound moaning\nand grieving, and would not move. So his faithful heart broke that day,\nand he, too, slept forever by his dear master's side.\n\nBut this was not a sad thing that happened. For think how dreadful the\ndays would have been for Leo without Gerasimus. And think how sad a life\nGerasimus would have spent if Leo had left him first. Oh, no; it was not\nsad, but very, very beautiful that the dear Saint and his friendly beast\ncould be happy together all the day, and when the long night came they\ncould sleep together side by side in the garden.\n\n\n\n\nSAINT KENETH OF THE GULLS\n\n\nONCE upon a time, more than a thousand years ago, a great white sea-gull\nwas circling above the waves which roll between South England and Wales.\nHe was pretending that he was doing this just for fun; and he seemed\nvery lazy and dozy as he poised and floated without much trouble to move\nhis wings. But really he was looking for a dinner, though he did not\nwant any one to suspect it. And he hoped that some unwary fish would\nswim up near the surface of the water within diving reach of his great\nclaws. His keen gray eyes were open all the while unsleepily, and not\nmuch that was going on down below on the water escaped his notice.\n\nSuddenly his eye caught sight of a little black speck on the waves.\n\"Aha!\" he said to himself, \"I think I see my dinner!\" and with a great\nswoop down he pounced. You could hardly think how anything which looked\nso lazy and quiet could dart so like a flash of lightning. But a gull is\nan air-ship that can sink whenever it chooses. And when he gives a fish\na sudden invitation to step in for dinner, the fish is hardly able to\nrefuse.\n\nBut this was no fish which the hungry gull had spied. Before he reached\nthe water he saw his mistake, and wheeling swiftly as only a gull can,\nhe flapped back again into the air, uttering a screech of surprise.\n\n\"Cree-e-e!\" he cried. \"'Tis no scaly water-fish such as I like to eat.\n'Tis one of those smooth land-fishes with yellow seaweed growing on its\nhead. What is it doing here? I must see to this. Cree-e-e!\"\n\nNo wonder the great bird circled and swooped curiously over the wicker\nbasket which was floating on the waves. For on a piece of purple cloth\nlay a tiny pink-and-white baby, sound asleep, his yellow hair curling\nabout the dimpled face, and one thumb thrust into the round red mouth.\n\n\"Well, well!\" said the sea-gull to himself when he had examined the\nstrange floating thing all he wished. \"I must go and tell the others\nabout this. Something must be done. There is a storm brewing, and this\nboat will not bear much rough weather. This little land-fish cannot\nswim. We must take care of him. Cree-e-e!\" So off he flapped, and as he\nwent he gave the family cry to call the gulls about him, wherever they\nmight be.\n\nSoon they came, circling carelessly, swooping sulkily, floating happily,\ndarting eagerly, according to their various dispositions; and as they\ncame they gave the Gull cry. \"Cree-e-e!\" said they, \"what is the\nmatter?\" \"Follow me,\" said the White Gull to the great fleet of\ngray-winged air-ships. \"Follow me, and you shall see\" (which is Gull\npoetry).\n\nThen he led the flock over the spot where the wicker cradle tossed on\nthe growing waves. \"Lo,\" said he, \"a land-fish in danger of being\ndrowned among the Scaly Ones. Let us save it. See how pink it is. Its\neyes are a piece of the sky, and its voice is not unlike ours--listen!\"\n\nFor by this time the baby had wakened, and feeling cold and hungry and\nwet with the dashing spray, opened his pink mouth, and began to cry\nlustily. \"E-e-e-e-e!\" wailed the baby; and as the White Gull had said,\nthat sounds very like the chief word of the Gull tongue.\n\n[Illustration: SAINT KENETH OF THE GULLS]\n\n\"Poor little thing!\" said all the mother gulls in chorus. \"He talks our\nlanguage, he must be saved. Come, brothers and sisters, and use your\nbeaks and talons before the clumsy nest in which he lies is sunk\nbeneath the waves. Cree-e-e, little one, cree-e-e! We will save you.\"\n\nNow, I don't know what _cree-e-e_ means in Gull. But the baby must have\nunderstood. For he stopped crying instantly, and looked up laughing at\nthe white wings which fanned his face and the kind gray eyes which\npeered into his own blue ones.\n\nSo the strong gulls seized the corners of the purple cloth on which the\nbaby lay, some with their claws, some with their hooked beaks. And at a\nsignal from the White Gull they fluttered up and away, bearing the baby\nover the waves as if he were in a little hammock. The White Gull flew on\nbefore and guided them to land,--a high shelf which hung over the sea\nroaring on the rocks below, the nicest kind of a gull home. And here\nthey laid the baby down, and sat about wondering what they must do next.\nBut the baby cried.\n\n\"We must build him a nest,\" said the White Gull. \"These rocks are too\nhard and too sharp for a little land-fish. I know how they sleep in\ntheir home nests, for I have seen.\"\n\nNow the gulls lay their eggs on the bare rocks, and think these quite\nsoft enough for the young gull babies. But they all agreed that this\nwould never do for the little stranger. So they pulled the downy\nfeathers from their breasts till they had a great pile; and of this they\nmade the softest bed in which they laid the baby. And he slept.\n\nThis is how little Saint Keneth was saved from the waves by the kind\nsea-gulls. And it goes to show that birds are sometimes kinder than\nhuman folk. For Keneth was the Welsh Prince's little son. But no one\nloved him, and his cruel mother had put him into the wicker basket and\nset him afloat on the waves, not caring what became of him nor hoping to\nsee him again. But this in after years she did, when Keneth was become a\ngreat and famous Saint whom all, even the Prince and Princess, honored.\nShe did not know him then because she believed that he was dead. How\nproud she would have been if she could have called him \"Son!\" But that\nwas many years later.\n\nNow when the gulls had made Keneth this comfortable nest, they next\nwondered what they should do to get him food. But the White Gull had an\nidea. He flew away over the land and was gone for some time. When at\nlast he returned he had with him a kind forest doe,--a yellow mother\nDeer who had left her little ones, at the White Gull's request, to come\nand feed the stranger baby. So Keneth found a new mother who loved him\nfar better than his own had done,--a new mother who came every morning\nand every night and fed him with her milk. And he grew strong and fat\nand hearty, the happy baby in his nest upon the rocks, where his\nfriends, the sea-gulls, watched over him, and the mother Deer fed and\ncared for him, and washed him clean with her warm crash-towel tongue.\n\nNow when Keneth had lived in the sea-gulls' home for some months, one\nday the flock of guardian gulls left him while they went upon a fishing\ntrip. The mother Deer had not yet come with his breakfast, but was at\nhome with her own little ones, so that for the first time Keneth was\nquite alone. He did not know this, but was sleeping peacefully on his\npurple quilt, when a strange face came peering over the edge of the\nrocks. It was a Shepherd from the nearest village who had clambered up\nto seek gulls' eggs for his breakfast. But his eyes bulged out of his\nhead, and he nearly fell over backward into the sea with surprise when\nhe saw Keneth lying in his nest of feathers.\n\n\"The Saints preserve us!\" he cried, \"what is this?\" But when he had\nclimbed nearer and saw what it really was, he was delighted with the\ntreasure which he had found. \"A beautiful little baby!\" he exclaimed. \"I\nwill take him home to my wife, who has no child of her own.\" And\nforthwith he took up Keneth, wrapped in the purple cloth, and started\ndown over the rocks towards his home.\n\nBut Keneth wakened at the stranger's touch and began to wail. He had no\nmind to go with the Shepherd; he wanted to stay where he was. So as they\nwent he screamed at the top of his lungs, hoping some of his friends\nwould come. And the mother Deer, who was on her way thither, heard his\nvoice. She came running in a fright, but she could do nothing to protect\nhim, being a gentle, weaponless creature. However, she followed\nanxiously to see what would happen to her darling. So they went down the\nrocks, Keneth and the Shepherd, with the Deer close behind. And all the\nway Keneth shrieked loudly, \"E-e-e-e!\"\n\nNow at last a messenger breeze carried the baby voice out over the water\nof the Bristol Channel where the gulls were fishing.\n\n\"What is that?\" they said, stopping their work to listen. \"Is it not our\nlittle land-fish calling us in Gull? He is in trouble or danger.\nBrothers, to the rescue! Cre-e-e-e!\"\n\nSo the flock of gulls left their fishing and swooped back to the rock\nwhere they had left the baby. Dreadful! The nest was empty. They flapped\ntheir wide wings and screamed with fear, \"What shall we do?\"\n\nBut just then up the rocky hill came panting the mother Deer. Her glossy\nhide was warm and wet, and her tongue lolled out with weariness, she had\nrun so fast.\n\n\"He is down there,\" she panted. \"The Shepherd has carried him to his hut\nand laid him in a nest such as human-folk make. The Shepherd's wife\nloves him and would keep him there, but he is unhappy and cries for us.\nYou must bring him back.\"\n\n\"We will, we will!\" screamed the gulls in chorus. \"Guide us to the\nplace, mother Deer.\" And without another word they rose on their great,\nstrong wings, and followed where she led. Back down the hill she took\nthe path, over the moor and up the lane to a little white cottage under\nthe rosebushes. \"Here is the place,\" said the Deer, and she paused.\n\nBut the flock of gulls with a great whirring and rustling and screaming\nswooped in at the little low door, straight up to the cradle where\nKeneth lay crying \"E-e-e-e!\" as if his heart would break.\n\nThe Shepherd's wife was sitting by the cradle saying, \"Hush!\" and\n\"Bye-lo!\" and other silly things that Keneth did not understand. But\nwhen she heard the rushing of the gulls' wings, she gave a scream and\nstarted for the door.\n\n\"Cree-e-e!\" cried the gulls fiercely. \"Give us our little one.\" And they\nperched on the edge of the cradle and looked tenderly at Keneth. Then\nhe stopped his crying and began to laugh, for these were the voices he\nknew and loved. And in another minute the gulls had fastened their beaks\nand claws into the purple cloth, and once more bore him away as they had\ndone when they saved him from the sea.\n\nOut of the door they flew, right over the Shepherd's astonished head,\nwhile his wife stared wildly at the empty cradle. And soon Keneth was\nlying in his own nest on the ledge above the roaring billows.\n\nAfter this no one tried again to bring the gulls' adopted baby back\namong human folk. Little Keneth tarried and thrived with his feathered\nbrothers, growing fat and strong. When he came to walk he was somewhat\nlame, to be sure; one of his legs was shorter than the other, and he\nlimped like a poor gull who has hurt his foot. But this troubled Keneth\nvery little, and the gulls were kind. He was always happy and contented,\nfull of singing and laughter and kind words for all.\n\nAnd here in his wild, spray-sprinkled nest above the Atlantic breakers,\nKeneth dwelt all his life. The Welsh peasants of the Gower peninsula\nrevered him as their Saint, knowing him to be a holy man beloved by the\ngulls and the deer and all the wild creatures of shore and forest, who\ndid their kindly best to make him happy.\n\n\n\n\nSAINT LAUNOMAR'S COW\n\n\nSAINT LAUNOMAR had once been a shepherd boy in the meadows of sunny\nFrance, and had lived among the gentle creatures of the fold and byre.\nSo he understood them and their ways very well, and they knew him for\ntheir friend. For this is a secret which one cannot keep from the\nanimals whose speech is silent.\n\nSaint Launomar had a cow of whom he was fond, a sleek black and white\nbeauty, who pastured in the green meadows of Chartres near the monastery\nand came home every evening to be milked and to rub her soft nose\nagainst her master's hand, telling him how much she loved him. Mignon\nwas a very wise cow; you could tell that by the curve of her horns and\nby the wrinkles in her forehead between the eyes; and especially by the\nway she switched her tail. And indeed, a cow ought to be wise who has\nbeen brought up by a whole monastery of learned men, with Launomar, the\nwisest person in all the country, for her master and friend.\n\nIt was a dark night after milking time; Launomar had put Mignon in her\nstall with a supper of hay before her, and had bade her good-night and a\npleasant cud-time. Then he had shut the heavy barn door and had gone\nback to his cell to sleep soundly till morning.\n\nBut no sooner had his lantern disappeared through the gate of the\nmonastery, than out of the forest came five black figures, creeping,\ncreeping along the wall and across the yard and up to the great oak\ndoor. They were all muffled in long black cloaks, and wore their caps\npulled down over their faces, as if they were afraid of being\nrecognized. They were wicked-looking men, and they had big knives stuck\nin their belts quite convenient to their hands. It was a band of\nrobbers; and they had come to steal Launomar's cow, who was known to be\nthe handsomest in all that part of the world.\n\nVery softly they forced open the great door, and very softly they stole\nacross the floor to Mignon's stall and threw a strong halter about her\nneck to lead her away. But first they were careful to tie up her mouth\nin a piece of cloth so that she could not low and tell the whole\nmonastery what danger she was in. Mignon was angry, for that was just\nwhat she had meant to do as soon as she saw that these were no friends,\nbut wicked men who had come for no good to her or to the monastery.\n\nBut now she had to go with them dumbly, although she struggled and\nkicked and made all the noise she could. But the monks were already\nsound asleep and snoring on their hard pallets, and never suspected what\nwas going on so near to them. Even Launomar, who turned over in his\nsleep and murmured, \"Ho, Mignon, stand still!\" when he dimly recognized\na sound of kicking,--even Launomar did not waken to rescue his dear\nMignon from the hands of those villains who were taking her away.\n\nThe robbers led her hurriedly down the lane, across the familiar meadows\nand into the dense woods, where they could hide from any one who\nhappened to pass by. Now it was dark and they could see but dimly where\nthey were going. The paths crossed and crisscrossed in so many\ndirections that they soon began to quarrel about which was the right\none to take. They did not know this part of the country very well, for\nthey were strangers from a different province, who had come to\nLaunomar's home because they had heard of his famous cow and were bound\nto have her for themselves.\n\nVery soon the robbers were lost in the tangle of trees and bushes and\ndid not know where they were, or in which direction they ought to go.\nOne said, \"Go that way,\" pointing towards the north. And one said, \"No,\nno! Go _that_ way,\" pointing directly south. The third grumbled and\nsaid, \"Ho, fellows! Not so, but _this_ way,\" and he strode towards the\neast. While the fourth man cried, \"You are all wrong, comrades. It is\n_there_ we must go,\" and he started to lead Mignon towards the west. But\nthe fifth robber confessed that indeed he did not know.\n\n\"Let us follow the cow,\" he cried; \"she is the only one who can see in\nthe dark. I have always heard that animals will lead you aright if you\nleave the matter to them.\" Now as the other robbers really did not have\nthe least idea in the world as to which was the right direction, this\nseemed to them as sensible a plan as any. So they stripped the halter\nfrom Mignon's head and said, \"Hi, there! Get along, Cow, and show us the\nway.\"\n\nMignon looked at them through the dark with her big brown eyes, and\nlaughed inside. It seemed too good to be true! They had left her free,\nand were bidding her to guide them on their way out of the forest back\nto their own country. Mignon chuckled again, so loudly that they thought\nshe must be choking, and hastily untied the cloth from her mouth. This\nwas just what she wanted, for she longed to chew her cud again. She\ntossed her head and gave a gentle \"Moo!\" as if to say, \"Come on, simple\nmen, and I will show you the way.\" But really she was thinking to\nherself, \"Aha! my fine fellows. Now I will lead you a pretty chase. And\nyou shall be repaid for this night's work, aha!\"\n\nMignon was a very wise cow. She had not pastured in the meadows about\nChartres with blind eyes. She knew the paths north and south and east\nand west through the forest and the fern; and even in the dark of the\ntangled underbrush she could feel out the way quite plainly. But she\nsaid to herself, \"I must not make the way too easy for these wicked men.\nI must punish them all I can now that it is my turn.\"\n\nSo she led them roundabout and roundabout, through mud and brambles and\nswamps; over little brooks and through big miry ponds where they were\nnearly drowned,--roundabout and roundabout all night long. They wanted\nto rest, but she went so fast that they could not catch her to make her\nstand still. And they dared not lose sight of her big whiteness through\nthe dark, for now they were completely lost and could never find their\nway out of the wilderness without her. So all night long she kept them\npanting and puffing and wading after her, till they were all worn out,\ncold and shivering with wet, scratched and bleeding from the briars, and\ncross as ten sticks.\n\nBut when at last, an hour after sunrise, Mignon led them out into an\nopen clearing, their faces brightened.\n\n\"Oh, I think I remember this place,\" said the first man.\n\n\"Yes, it has a familiar look. We must be near home,\" said the second.\n\n\"We are at least twenty-five miles from the monks of Chartres by this\ntime,\" said the third, \"and I wish we had some breakfast.\"\n\n\"By another hour we shall have the cow safe in our home den,\" said the\nfourth, \"and then we will have some bread and milk.\"\n\nBut the fifth interrupted them saying, \"Look! Who is that man in gray?\"\n\nThey all looked up quickly and began to tremble; but Mignon gave a great\n\"Moo!\" and galloped forward to meet the figure who had stepped out from\nbehind a bush. It was Saint Launomar himself!\n\nHe had been up ever since dawn looking for his precious cow; for when he\nwent to milk her he had found the barn empty, and her footprints with\nthose of the five robbers in the moist earth had told the story and\npointed which way the company had gone. But it was not his plan to scold\nor frighten the robbers. He walked up to them, for they were so\nsurprised to see him that they stood still trembling, forgetting even to\nrun away.\n\n\"Good-morning, friends,\" said Launomar kindly. \"You have brought back\nmy cow, I see, who to-night for the first time has left her stall to\nwander far. I thank you, good friends, for bringing Mignon to me. For\nshe is not only a treasure in herself, but she is my dearest friend and\nI should be most unhappy to lose her.\"\n\nThe men stood staring at Launomar in astonishment. They could hardly\nbelieve their eyes and their ears. Where did he come from? What did he\nmean? But when they realized how kind his voice was, and that he was not\naccusing them nor threatening to have them punished, they were very much\nashamed. They hung their heads guiltily; and then all of a sudden they\nfell at his feet, the five of them, confessing how it had all come about\nand begging his pardon.\n\n\"We stole the cow, Master,\" said the first one.\n\n\"And carried her these many miles away,\" said the second.\n\n\"We are wicked robbers and deserve to be punished,\" said the third.\n\n\"But we beg you to pardon us,\" cried the fourth.\n\n\"Let us depart, kind Father, we pray you,\" begged the fifth. \"And be so\ngood as to direct us on our way, for we are sorely puzzled.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" answered Saint Launomar pleasantly, \"the cow hath led you a\nlong way, hath she not? You must be both tired and hungry. You cannot\njourney yet.\" And in truth they were miserable objects to see, so that\nthe Saint's kind heart was filled with pity, robbers though they were.\n\"Follow me,\" he said. By this time they were too weak and weary to think\nof disobeying. So meekly they formed into a procession of seven,\nLaunomar and the cow going cheerfully at the head. For these two were\nvery glad to be together again, and his arm was thrown lovingly about\nher glossy neck as they went.\n\nBut what was the amazement of the five robbers when in a short minute or\ntwo they turned a corner, and there close beside them stood the\nmonastery itself, with the very barn from which they had stolen Mignon\nthe night before! All this time the clever cow had led them in great\ncircles roundabout and roundabout her own home. And after all this\nscrambling and wading through the darkness, in the morning they were no\nfarther on their journey than they had been at the start. What a wise\ncow that was! And what a good breakfast of bran porridge and hay and\nsweet turnips Launomar gave her to pay for her hard night's work.\n\nThe five robbers had a good breakfast too; but perhaps they did not\nrelish it as Mignon did hers. For their consciences were heavy; besides,\nthey sat at the monastery table, and all the monks stood by in a row,\nsaying nothing but pursing up their mouths and looking pious; which was\ntrying. And when the robbers came to drink their porridge Launomar said\nmildly,--\n\n\"That is Mignon's milk which you drink, Sirs. It is the best milk in\nFrance, and you are welcome to it for your breakfast to-day, since we\nhave such reason to be grateful to you for not putting it beyond our\nreach forever. Ah, my friends, we could ill spare so worthy a cow, so\ngood a friend, so faithful a guide. But I trust that you will not need\nher services again. Perhaps by daylight you can find your way home\nwithout her if I direct you. The highroad is plain and straight for\nhonest men. I commend it to you.\"\n\nSo, when they were refreshed and rested, Launomar led them forth and\npointed out the way as he had promised. He and Mignon stood on the crest\nof a little hill and watched them out of sight. Then they turned and\nlooked at one another, the wise Saint and his wise cow.\n\nAnd they both chuckled inside.\n\n\n\n\nSAINT WERBURGH & HER GOOSE\n\n\nI.\n\nSAINT WERBURGH was a King's daughter, a real princess, and very\nbeautiful. But unlike most princesses of the fairy tales, she cared\nnothing at all about princes or pretty clothes or jewels, or about\nhaving a good time. Her only longing was to do good and to make other\npeople happy, and to grow good and wise herself, so that she could do\nthis all the better. So she studied and studied, worked and worked; and\nshe became a holy woman, an Abbess. And while she was still very young\nand beautiful, she was given charge of a whole convent of nuns and\nschool-girls not much younger than herself, because she was so much\nwiser and better than any one else in all the countryside.\n\nBut though Saint Werburgh had grown so famous and so powerful, she still\nremained a simple, sweet girl. All the country people loved her, for she\nwas always eager to help them, to cure the little sick children and to\nadvise their fathers and mothers. She never failed to answer the\nquestions which puzzled them, and so she set their poor troubled minds\nat ease. She was so wise that she knew how to make people do what she\nknew to be right, even when they wanted to do wrong. And not only human\nfolk but animals felt the power of this young Saint. For she loved and\nwas kind to them also. She studied about them and grew to know their\nqueer habits and their animal way of thinking. And she learned their\nlanguage, too. Now when one loves a little creature very much and\nunderstands it well, one can almost always make it do what one\nwishes--that is, if one wishes right.\n\nFor some time Saint Werburgh had been interested in a flock of wild\ngeese which came every day to get their breakfast in the convent meadow,\nand to have a morning bath in the pond beneath the window of her cell.\nShe grew to watch until the big, long-necked gray things with their\nshort tails and clumsy feet settled with a harsh \"Honk!\" in the grass.\nThen she loved to see the big ones waddle clumsily about in search of\ndainties for the children, while the babies stood still, flapping their\nwings and crying greedily till they were fed.\n\nThere was one goose which was her favorite. He was the biggest of them\nall, fat and happy looking. He was the leader and formed the point of\nthe V in which a flock of wild geese always flies. He was the first to\nalight in the meadow, and it was he who chose the spot for their\nbreakfast. Saint Werburgh named him Grayking, and she grew very fond of\nhim, although they had never spoken to one another.\n\nMaster Hugh was the convent Steward, a big, surly fellow who did not\nlove birds nor animals except when they were served up for him to eat.\nHugh also had seen the geese in the meadow. But, instead of thinking how\nnice and funny they were, and how amusing it was to watch them eat the\nworms and flop about in the water, he thought only, \"What a fine goose\npie they would make!\" And especially he looked at Grayking, the plumpest\nand most tempting of them all, and smacked his lips. \"Oh, how I wish I\nhad you in my frying-pan!\" he said to himself.\n\nNow it happened that worms were rather scarce in the convent meadow that\nspring. It had been dry, and the worms had crawled away to moister\nplaces. So Grayking and his followers found it hard to get breakfast\nenough. One morning, Saint Werburgh looked in vain for them in the usual\nspot. At first she was only surprised; but as she waited and waited, and\nstill they did not come, she began to feel much alarmed.\n\nJust as she was going down to her own dinner, the Steward, Hugh,\nappeared before her cap in hand and bowing low. His fat face was puffed\nand red with hurrying up the convent hill, and he looked angry.\n\n\"What is it, Master Hugh?\" asked Saint Werburgh in her gentle voice.\n\"Have you not money enough to buy to-morrow's breakfast?\" for it was his\nduty to pay the convent bills.\n\n\"Nay, Lady Abbess,\" he answered gruffly; \"it is not lack of money that\ntroubles me. It is abundance of geese.\"\n\n\"Geese! How? Why?\" exclaimed Saint Werburgh, startled. \"What of geese,\nMaster Hugh?\"\n\n\"This of geese, Lady Abbess,\" he replied. \"A flock of long-necked\nthieves have been in my new-planted field of corn, and have stolen all\nthat was to make my harvest.\" Saint Werburgh bit her lips.\n\n\"What geese were they?\" she faltered, though she guessed the truth.\n\n\"Whence the rascals come, I know not,\" he answered, \"but this I know.\nThey are the same which gather every morning in the meadow yonder. I\nspied the leader, a fat, fine thief with a black ring about his neck. It\nshould be a noose, indeed, for hanging. I would have them punished, Lady\nAbbess.\"\n\n\"They shall be punished, Master Hugh,\" said Saint Werburgh firmly, and\nshe went sadly up the stair to her cell without tasting so much as a bit\nof bread for her dinner. For she was sorry to find her friends such\nnaughty birds, and she did not want to punish them, especially Grayking.\nBut she knew that she must do her duty.\n\nWhen she had put on her cloak and hood she went out into the courtyard\nbehind the convent where there were pens for keeping doves and chickens\nand little pigs. And standing beside the largest of these pens Saint\nWerburgh made a strange cry, like the voice of the geese themselves,--a\ncry which seemed to say, \"Come here, Grayking's geese, with Grayking at\nthe head!\" And as she stood there waiting, the sky grew black above her\nhead with the shadowing of wings, and the honking of the geese grew\nlouder and nearer till they circled and lighted in a flock at her feet.\n\nShe saw that they looked very plump and well-fed, and Grayking was the\nfattest of the flock. All she did was to look at them steadily and\nreproachfully; but they came waddling bashfully up to her and stood in a\nline before her with drooping heads. It seemed as if something made them\nstay and listen to what she had to say, although they would much rather\nfly away.\n\nThen she talked to them gently and told them how bad they were to steal\ncorn and spoil the harvest. And as she talked they grew to love her\ntender voice, even though it scolded them. She cried bitterly as she\ntook each one by the wings and shook him for his sins and whipped\nhim--not too severely. Tears stood in the round eyes of the geese also,\nnot because she hurt them, for she had hardly ruffled their thick\nfeathers; but because they were sorry to have pained the beautiful\nSaint. For they saw that she loved them, and the more she punished them\nthe better they loved her. Last of all she punished Grayking. But when\nshe had finished she took him up in her arms and kissed him before\nputting him in the pen with the other geese, where she meant to keep\nthem in prison for a day and a night. Then Grayking hung his head, and\nin his heart he promised that neither he nor his followers should ever\nagain steal anything, no matter how hungry they were. Now Saint Werburgh\nread the thought in his heart and was glad, and she smiled as she turned\naway. She was sorry to keep them in the cage, but she hoped it might do\nthem good. And she said to herself, \"They shall have at least one good\nbreakfast of convent porridge before they go.\"\n\nSaint Werburgh trusted Hugh, the Steward, for she did not yet know the\nwickedness of his heart. So she told him how she had punished the geese\nfor robbing him, and how she was sure they would never do so any more.\nThen she bade him see that they had a breakfast of convent porridge the\nnext morning; and after that they should be set free to go where they\nchose.\n\nHugh was not satisfied. He thought the geese had not been punished\nenough. And he went away grumbling, but not daring to say anything cross\nto the Lady Abbess who was the King's daughter.\n\n\nII.\n\nSAINT WERBURGH was busy all the rest of that day and early the next\nmorning too, so she could not get out again to see the prisoned geese.\nBut when she went to her cell for the morning rest after her work was\ndone, she sat down by the window and looked out smilingly, thinking to\nsee her friend Grayking and the others taking their bath in the meadow.\nBut there were no geese to be seen! Werburgh's face grew grave. And even\nas she sat there wondering what had happened, she heard a prodigious\nhonking overhead, and a flock of geese came straggling down, not in the\nusual trim V, but all unevenly and without a leader. Grayking was gone!\n\nThey fluttered about crying and asking advice of one another, till they\nheard Saint Werburgh's voice calling them anxiously. Then with a cry of\njoy they flew straight up to her window and began talking all together,\ntrying to tell her what had happened.\n\n\"Grayking is gone!\" they said. \"Grayking is stolen by the wicked\nSteward. Grayking was taken away when we were set free, and we shall\nnever see him again. What shall we do, dear lady, without our leader?\"\n\nSaint Werburgh was horrified to think that her dear Grayking might be in\ndanger. Oh, how that wicked Steward had deceived her! She began to feel\nangry. Then she turned to the birds: \"Dear geese,\" she said earnestly,\n\"you have promised me never to steal again, have you not?\" and they all\nhonked \"Yes!\" \"Then I will go and question the Steward,\" she continued,\n\"and if he is guilty I will punish him and make him bring Grayking back\nto you.\"\n\nThe geese flew away feeling somewhat comforted, and Saint Werburgh sent\nspeedily for Master Hugh. He came, looking much surprised, for he could\nnot imagine what she wanted of him. \"Where is the gray goose with the\nblack ring about his neck?\" began Saint Werburgh without any preface,\nlooking at him keenly. He stammered and grew confused. \"I--I don't know,\nLady Abbess,\" he faltered. He had not guessed that she cared especially\nabout the geese.\n\n\"Nay, you know well,\" said Saint Werburgh, \"for I bade you feed them and\nset them free this morning. But one is gone.\"\n\n\"A fox must have stolen it,\" said he guiltily.\n\n\"Ay, a fox with black hair and a red, fat face,\" quoth Saint Werburgh\nsternly. \"Do not tell me lies. You have taken him, Master Hugh. I can\nread it in your heart.\" Then he grew weak and confessed.\n\n\"Ay, I have taken the great gray goose,\" he said faintly. \"Was it so\nvery wrong?\"\n\n\"He was a friend of mine and I love him dearly,\" said Saint Werburgh. At\nthese words the Steward turned very pale indeed.\n\n\"I did not know,\" he gasped.\n\n\"Go and bring him to me, then,\" commanded the Saint, and pointed to the\ndoor. Master Hugh slunk out looking very sick and miserable and horribly\nfrightened. For the truth was that he had been tempted by Grayking's\nfatness. He had carried the goose home and made him into a hot, juicy\npie which he had eaten for that very morning's breakfast. So how could\nhe bring the bird back to Saint Werburgh, no matter how sternly she\ncommanded?\n\nAll day long he hid in the woods, not daring to let himself be seen by\nany one. For Saint Werburgh was a King's daughter; and if the King\nshould learn what he had done to the pet of the Lady Abbess, he might\nhave Hugh himself punished by being baked into a pie for the King's\nhounds to eat.\n\nBut at night he could bear it no longer. He heard the voice of Saint\nWerburgh calling his name very softly from the convent, \"Master Hugh,\nMaster Hugh, come, bring me my goose!\" And just as the geese could not\nhelp coming when she called them, so he felt that he must go, whether he\nwould or no. He went into his pantry and took down the remains of the\ngreat pie. He gathered up the bones of poor Grayking in a little basket,\nand with chattering teeth and shaking limbs stole up to the convent and\nknocked at the wicket gate.\n\nSaint Werburgh was waiting for him. \"I knew you would come,\" she said.\n\"Have you brought my goose?\" Then silently and with trembling hands he\ntook out the bones one by one and laid them on the ground before Saint\nWerburgh. So he stood with bowed head and knocking knees waiting to hear\nher pronounce his punishment.\n\n\"Oh, you wicked man!\" she said sadly. \"You have killed my beautiful\nGrayking, who never did harm to any one except to steal a little corn.\"\n\n\"I did not know you loved him, Lady,\" faltered the man in self-defense.\n\n\"You ought to have known it,\" she returned; \"you ought to have loved him\nyourself.\"\n\n\"I did, Lady Abbess,\" confessed the man. \"That was the trouble. I loved\nhim too well--in a pie.\"\n\n\"Oh, selfish, gluttonous man!\" she exclaimed in disgust. \"Can you not\nsee the beauty of a dear little live creature till it is dead and fit\nonly for your table? I shall have you taught better. Henceforth you\nshall be made to study the lives and ways of all things which live about\nthe convent; and never again, for punishment, shall you eat flesh of any\nbird or beast. We will see if you cannot be taught to love them when\nthey have ceased to mean Pie. Moreover, you shall be confined for two\ndays and two nights in the pen where I kept the geese. And porridge\nshall be your only food the while. Go, Master Hugh.\"\n\nSo the wicked Steward was punished. But he learned his lesson; and after\na little while he grew to love the birds almost as well as Saint\nWerburgh herself.\n\nBut she had not yet finished with Grayking. After Master Hugh had gone\nshe bent over the pitiful little pile of bones which was all that was\nleft of that unlucky pie. A tear fell upon them from her beautiful eyes;\nand kneeling down she touched them with her white fingers, speaking\nsoftly the name of the bird whom she had loved.\n\n[Illustration: SAINT WERBURGH & HER GOOSE]\n\n\"Grayking, arise,\" she said. And hardly had the words left her mouth\nwhen a strange thing happened. The bones stirred, lifted themselves, and\nin a moment a glad \"Honk!\" sounded in the air, and Grayking himself,\nblack ring and all, stood ruffling his feathers before her. She clasped\nhim in her arms and kissed him again and again. Then calling the rest of\nthe flock by her strange power, she showed them their lost leader\nrestored as good as new.\n\nWhat a happy flock of geese flew honking away in an even V, with the\nhandsomest, grayest, plumpest goose in all the world at their head! And\nwhat an exciting story he had to tell his mates! Surely, no other goose\never lived who could tell how it felt to be made into pie, to be eaten\nand to have his bones picked clean by a greedy Steward.\n\nThis is how Saint Werburgh made lifelong friendship with a flock of big\ngray geese. And I dare say even now in England one of their descendants\nmay be found with a black ring around his neck, the handsomest, grayest,\nplumpest goose in all the world. And when he hears the name of Saint\nWerburgh, which has been handed down to him from grandfather to\ngrandson for twelve hundred years, he will give an especially loud\n\"Honk!\" of praise.\n\nDear Saint Werburgh! One would almost be willing to make a goose of\nhimself if so he might see her again, with all her feathered friends\nabout her.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BALLAD OF SAINT ATHRACTA'S STAGS\n\n\n          ATHRACTA was a maiden fair,\n            A Prince's daughter she;\n          Down to her feet fell golden hair,\n            A wondrous sight to see.\n\n          And all amid this golden shower,\n            The sweetest rosebud face\n          Blossomed like a dew-fed flower\n            Upon a stem of grace.\n\n          Yet loved she not the court of kings,\n            But in the wild would be,\n          With but one maid her hair to braid\n            And bear her company.\n\n          So, near Lough Cara's silver sheen,\n            They built of turf and bark\n          A hut wherein from springtide green\n            They dwelt through winter's dark.\n\n          On seven cross-roads the hut was made,\n            That they might offer rest\n          To pilgrims by the night waylaid,\n            And strangers hunger-pressed.\n\n          To draw them water from the lake,\n            To till their little soil,\n          Two ancient horses did they take,\n            Outworn for other toil.\n\n          Once gallant chargers these had been,\n            Keen-eyed and prancing gay,\n          Who tourneys brave and wars had seen,\n            All decked in bright array.\n\n          But now their age in peace was spent\n            By kind Athracta's side;\n          No gallant wars, no tournament,\n            And yet they served with pride.\n\n          Their neighbors in the forest glades\n            Were stately, antlered deer,\n          Nor of the two most holy maids\n            Had these, their brothers, fear.\n\n          So dwelt the maidens there alone\n            For many months and years,\n          The doings of the world unknown,\n            Its wars, its woes, its tears.\n\n          But strife was stirring in the land,\n            And kings must castles build,\n          To guard them from the foeman's hand\n            With fire and weapon filled.\n\n          And so the King's most stern decree\n            Went forth upon a day,--\n          \"My serfs must build a fort for me,\n            Each must his service pay.\n\n          \"Each man and maiden must fulfill\n            In this great work his share;\n          It is the King of Connaught's will,\n            Let tardy hands beware!\"\n\n          Athracta sent unto the King:\n            \"We be but maidens twain,\n          My Liege, we cannot do this thing,\n            I beg we may refrain.\"\n\n          But sternly sent he back the word,--\n            \"Ye maids must do your part.\"\n          He was a hard and cruel lord,\n            No pity touched his heart.\n\n          So forth they fared into the wood,\n            Athracta with her maid,\n          To fell the timber as they could,\n            Without of men for aid.\n\n          Heavy the axe and full of pain\n            Each weak and skill-less stroke,\n          Yet strove the maids again, again,\n            With walnut, beech, and oak.\n\n          Until upon the wagon cast\n            By which the horses stood,\n          Their bleeding hands had piled at last\n            The goodly logs of wood.\n\n          But when Athracta saw the steeds\n            Straining with feeble will\n          To draw the heavy load, it needs\n            Must make her eyes to fill.\n\n          Athracta spoke all piteously,--\n            \"Alack! poor broken things,\n          Must you, too, bear your painful share\n            To save the pride of Kings?\n\n          \"How can I ease your burden, how,\n            My faithful servants still?\n          My little hands are bleeding now\n            With toil beyond their skill.\"\n\n          \"O mistress dear,\" then spoke her maid,\n            \"These be but feeble nags;\n          How would the King's pride be dismayed\n            If you could harness _Stags_!\"\n\n          \"Thou sayest well,\" Athracta vowed.\n            \"Come hither, Stags!\" she cried,\n          And lo! the thud of hoofs grew loud\n            Ere yet the echo died.\n\n          \"Come hither, Stags!\" O'er green and glade\n            The silver summons thrilled,\n          And soon the space about the maid\n            With antlered kings was filled.\n\n          Through moss and fern and tangled trees\n            Twelve panting creatures broke,\n          And bending low their stately knees\n            They knelt beneath the yoke.\n\n          Now harnessed in the horses' stead\n            The great Stags strained their best,\n          To please the Lady at their head\n            And follow her behest.\n\n          But lo! a vexing thing then happed;\n            Scarce had they gained the road,\n          The rusty chains of iron snapped\n            Beneath the heavy load.\n\n          Yet paused she not in weak despair,\n            This noble-hearted maid,\n          But loosed her heavy golden hair\n            Out from its double braid.\n\n          She loosed her locks so wonder-bright\n            And shook them to the breeze;--\n          It seemed a beam of yellow light\n            Had sifted through the trees.\n\n          Then from amid this golden net\n            She plucked some silken strands,\n          And where the chains had first been set\n            She bound them with her hands.\n\n          She tied the ends against the strain,\n            And knotted them with care,\n          Then bade the Stags pull once again\n            Upon the ropes of hair.\n\n          And lo! the slender harness held,\n            And lo! the antlered steeds\n          Went forth to prove their generous love\n            Lent to a maiden's needs.\n\n          Straight to the King her gift they bore\n            To fill his heart with shame;\n          And her true maiden went before\n            To show him whence they came.\n\n          Now when the King this wonder saw\n            He turned all pale and red,\n          \"She hath a greater power than law,\"\n            He vowed, and bowed his head.\n\n          \"She hath a greater power than I,\n            Whose slaves the wild stags be,\n          And golden hair like this might snare\n            E'en the wild heart of me.\n\n          \"No need to her of castles stout,\n            No need of moat or tower,\n          With antlered guardians about\n            Her lonely wild-wood bower.\n\n          \"No need to her of watch or ward,\n            With friends like these at hand;\n          Bid her from me henceforth to be\n            Queen of her little land.\n\n          \"Henceforth she is no serf of mine,\n            Nor subject to my throne;\n          Where'er her golden hair may shine\n            That is her realm alone.\"\n\n          So where the seven cross-roads met\n            Still dwelt the holy maid,\n          Her hut a place of refuge set\n            For all who shelter prayed.\n\n          Her realm a holy place of peace,\n            Where, with the ancient nags,\n          Lived out their days in pleasant ways\n            Athracta's faithful Stags.\n\n\n\n\nSAINT KENTIGERN & THE ROBIN\n\n\nONCE upon a time Saint Servan kept a school near Glasgow in Scotland,\nand many boys, big and little, came there to study. Now of all these\nboys there was one who surpassed the rest in everything that makes a\ngood scholar. Kentigern was one of the smallest boys in the school, and\nyet he stood at the head of all his classes. It was Kentigern who found\nthe answer to the knottiest problem, and who read off the hardest\npassages of Latin when no one else was able to make sense of them. It\nwas Kentigern who learned his lessons first and who recited them best.\nIt was Kentigern who sang the loudest and was never off the pitch; and\ngood Saint Servan loved him best of all his pupils.\n\nFor all these reasons, and for several more like them, the other boys\nwere jealous of Kentigern and did everything they could to trouble him\nand make him unhappy. They tried to make him fail in his lessons by\ntalking and laughing when it was his turn to recite. But this was a\nuseless trick; his answers were always ready, so they had to give this\nup. They teased him and called him names, trying to make him lose his\ntemper so that he would be punished. But he was too good-natured to be\ncross with them; so they had to give this up. They tried to coax him\ninto mischief and lead him do something which would make Saint Servan\nangry with him. But Kentigern loved his master too well to do anything\nto trouble him. So the boys had finally to give this up also.\n\nThere was only one way to bring Kentigern into disgrace. They must plan\na trap, and make him fall into it. For weeks they racked their brains\ntrying to think what they should do; but at last they thought they had\nhit upon a plan.\n\nIt was all concerned with a fire. In those days there were no matches\nwith which to strike a light in a second. Matches had not been invented\nin the year 600, nor indeed for many centuries afterwards. Their way of\nmaking a fire was by rubbing two dry sticks together until they grew hot\nand a spark fell out upon the wood which was to be kindled. And this\nwas a very difficult and tiresome thing to do, especially in the winter\nwhen there were few dry sticks to be found. So the fire which was kept\nburning night and day in the great fireplace of Saint Servan's school\nwas tended carefully, and it would be a very serious thing to let this\ngo out. For how would the breakfast be cooked, and the rooms warmed, and\nthe candles lighted for the morning service in the chapel if there were\nno fire on the great hearth?\n\nSo for a week at a time the boys had to take turns in tending the fire;\nand the boy whose turn it was had to rise at midnight and put on wood\nenough to keep the blaze bright until morning. And oh! how angry Saint\nServan would be with any boy who was so careless as to let the fire go\nout in the night.\n\nNow it was Kentigern's week to tend the fire; and for several days he\ndid tend it faithfully. But the boys were waiting for a chance to play\ntheir mean trick. On the fourth night Kentigern rose as the chapel clock\nboomed \"twelve!\" and went down to the kitchen to give the hungry fire\nits midnight lunch of snappy wood. But as soon as he stepped into the\ngreat empty hall he knew something was wrong. Br-r-r! The air was damp\nand chilly, and there was no crimson glow on the hearthstones. Kentigern\nshivered and ran to the fireplace, peering into the black cavern. There\nwas nothing but a heap of white ashes and half-burnt wood!\n\nThen Kentigern's heart sank, for he knew he should be blamed for\ncarelessness, although he suspected that some one had thrown water on\nthe fire and put it out. And he guessed that it was the other boys who\nhad done this spiteful thing to bring him into trouble. He did not know\nwhat to do. But a sudden courage came to him. He took up a log of wood\nfrom the corner and laid it on the heap of ashes. Then bending down he\nblew gently on the pile. And oh, wonderful to say! It was as if he had\nscratched a dozen cards of matches and had touched them to a pile of\npaper. Hardly had his breath stirred the ashes and made the moss shiver\non the great log, when the whole fireplace was filled with dancing\nflames, and the wood began to snap and crack in the best kind of a\nblaze. Kentigern laughed softly to himself as he stole back to bed, and\nsaid never a word to the sleeping boys who had tried to make mischief\nfor him.\n\nWhen they woke in the morning they began to chuckle and nudge one\nanother, expecting every moment to see Saint Servan come frowning in\nsearch of the careless Kentigern. And every boy was ready to declare\nthat the fire was burning brightly when he went to bed, and that\nKentigern had forgotten to go down and tend it at midnight. But they\nwere prevented from telling this falsehood. For the bell rang as usual\nfor breakfast, and down they all went to find a beautiful fire burning\non the hearth, and Kentigern going with his taper to light the chapel\ncandelabra. They did not know how it had happened till long, long\nafterwards when Kentigern had made many other wonders come to pass, and\nwhen he was known far and wide as a Saint even wiser than Servan his\nmaster.\n\nBut meanwhile the boys hated him more than ever, when they saw how much\nbetter Saint Servan loved him every day. And once more they planned to\nbring him into disgrace. But this time it was an even more cruel thing\nwhich they meant to do. For if they succeeded it would not only cause\nKentigern to be punished and make Saint Servan unhappy, but it would\ncost the life of an innocent little creature who never had done any harm\nto a single one of them.\n\nSaint Servan was a kind-hearted old man, and he had a Robin Redbreast of\nwhich he was very fond,--a black-eyed fellow who ate his breakfast out\nof the Saint's hand. And when the master chanted the Psalms the little\nchorister would perch on Servan's shoulder and flap his wings,\ntwittering as if he were trying to join in the songs of praise.\n\nNow one morning when the coast was clear, the boys killed the little\nRedbreast and pulled off his head. And then the biggest boy of them all\ntook the dead bird in his hand, and followed by all the rest ran\nscreaming to Saint Servan himself, pretending to feel very sorry.\n\n\"Oh Father!\" cried the Big Boy, \"just see what the wicked Kentigern has\ndone! Look at your Robin whom Kentigern has killed!\"\n\nThen they all began to cry out against Kentigern, and some even\ndeclared that they had seen him do the wicked deed; which was a horrid\nstory, and their tongues must have smarted well as they spoke it.\n\nOf course Saint Servan was very sad and angry. He tenderly took the\nlittle limp body in his hand and went to seek Kentigern, the other boys\ntiptoeing after him to see the fun. And by and by they came upon him in\na window bending over a big book which he was studying. Saint Servan\nstrode up to him and laid a heavy hand upon his shoulder.\n\n\"Look at this, boy,\" he cried with a sad voice, \"look at this cruel\ndeed, and tell me what shall be done to punish the slayer? Did I not\nlove the Robin, even as I loved you, ungrateful boy!\"\n\nKentigern turned quite pale with surprise and sorrow, and the tears came\ninto his eyes.\n\n\"Oh, the dear little bird,\" he said. \"Did I not love him too? Who has\nkilled him, Father?\"\n\n\"You did, you did; we saw you!\" cried all the boys in a chorus.\n\nKentigern turned and looked at them in astonishment. He did not say a\nword, but his cheeks grew red and his eyes flashed. This was more than\neven his patience could stand.\n\n\"Well, what have you to say for yourself?\" queried Saint Servan sternly.\nKentigern turned to him sadly.\n\n\"Oh Father!\" he said, \"how can you believe that I would do such a cruel\nthing, to hurt the bird and to make you sad? I did not do it, Father.\"\n\n\"Can you prove it?\" asked Saint Servan still more sternly, for he\nthought the boy was telling a falsehood to hide his guilt.\n\n\"Give me the Robin, Father,\" said Kentigern, holding out his hand. \"I\nwill prove that it was not this hand which cowardly used so small a\nthing as a tiny bird.\" Then holding the limp body in one hand and the\ndowny head in the other, he stood before them all, looking up towards\nheaven, and made his little prayer.\n\n[Illustration: SAINT KENTIGERN & THE ROBIN]\n\n\"O Father in heaven,\" he said, \"prove to my dear Father on earth that I\nhave not done this cruel thing. If I am innocent, give me power to undo\nthe wrong and restore life to the little singer who loved to praise\nThee with his sweet voice.\" Then gently he set the head in place where\nit should be and, as his tears fell upon the Robin's neck, it seemed to\ngrow again to the body. The feathers ruffled and the limp wings\nfluttered feebly; the black eyes opened, and out of the bill came a\nlittle chirp. Then the Robin hopped out of Kentigern's hands and across\nthe floor to Saint Servan's feet, and flew up on his master's shoulder.\nThere he sat and sang such a carol of joy as made the great hall ring\nagain. But all the guilty boys put their fingers in their ears and\nturned pale, as if they understood what he was saying, and as if it told\nthe truth about their jealousy and their cruelty and their falsehood.\n\nSo Saint Servan learned that Kentigern was innocent, and saw how it had\nall happened. The real culprits were severely punished. But Kentigern\nbecame even dearer than before to his master, who helped him in every\nway to become the great and famous Saint he afterwards was. And the\nRobin was another fond and faithful friend. For the bird seemed never to\nforget that Kentigern had restored his life, and always sang his\nsweetest song for the boy.\n\nYou may be sure that after this the boys gave up trying to get the\nbetter of Kentigern. They had learned that lesson, and thenceforth they\nwere more kind and respectful to a boy over whom some kind Power seemed\nto keep special charge.\n\n\n\n\nSAINT BLAISE AND HIS BEASTS\n\n\nTHIS is the story of a Saint who loved all animals and whom the animals\ntherefore loved in return.\n\nSaint Blaise was the son of wealthy people in Sebaste, a town of Armenia\nnear Turkey, in the days when it was fashionable to be a heathen. He was\nnot like the other boys, his playmates, for he was a Christian, full of\nsympathy for everything that lived. More than all things he longed to\nlearn how to help the creatures that he loved,--men and women, the\nchildren, the dumb beasts, and everything that suffered and was sick. So\nhe went to school and studied medicine; and by and by he grew up to be a\nwise man with a big, tender heart. Every one loved him, for he did great\ngood among the people of his village, tending their children and healing\ntheir cattle and household pets.\n\nNor did he neglect even the wild beasts. For Saint Blaise loved to go\naway into the woods and fields where he could learn about the untamed\ncreatures and teach them to be his friends. The birds and beasts and\nfishes grew to love him because he never hurt them, but talked to them\nkindly and healed them when they were sick or wounded. The timid\ncreatures were brave in his presence, and the fierce ones grew tame and\ngentle at the sound of his voice. The little birds brought him food, and\nthe four-footed beasts ran errands and were his messengers. The legends\nsay that they used to visit him in his forest home, which was a cave on\nMount Argus near the city of Sebaste. Every morning they came to see how\ntheir master was faring, to receive his blessing and lick his hands in\ngratitude. If they found the Saint at his prayers they never disturbed\nhim, but waited in a patient, wistful group at the door of his cave\nuntil he rose from his knees.\n\nOne day a poor woman came to him in great distress because a wolf had\ncarried away her pig. Saint Blaise was sorry to hear that one of his\nfriends had done so wicked a thing. He bade the woman go home, and said\nhe would see what could be done. He called the Wolf up to him and shook\nhis head gravely at the culprit.\n\n\"You bad Wolf!\" he said. \"Don't you know that the Pig was a friend of\nmine, too? He is not handsome, but he is nice and plump; and he is the\nonly pig of a poor, lone woman. How could you be so selfish? Go straight\nhome and get my friend Pig, and drive him down to the woman's house.\"\nThen the Wolf went sheepishly away, and did what the good Saint had told\nhim to do; for the Pig had not yet been made into pork. And when the\npoor woman saw the Pig run grunting into her yard, chased by the\nrepentant Wolf, she fell upon his fat neck and wept tears of joy. Then\nthe Wolf went back to Saint Blaise, who told him he was a good wolf, and\ngave him a dish of fresh milk to cool his throat.\n\nSaint Blaise was chosen Bishop by the Christians who loved him for his\npiety and his charity. And the wood-beasts were glad of this honor done\nto their dear master. But the poor creatures did not know how dangerous\nit was to be a Christian in those days, and especially to be a Bishop\nwho had much power over the people. For the heathen were jealous of him,\nand feared that he would make all the people Christians too, when they\nsaw the wonderful cures which his medicines made. But they could not\nfind him, for he was living in his forest cave.\n\nThis was 316 years after Christ's birth, and the cruel Emperor Licinius\nwas causing many Christians to be killed. Agricola was the governor whom\nLicinius had appointed in Sebaste, and he sent his soldiers into the\nmountains to get some wild beasts for the games in the arena, where the\nChristians were to be put to death. But they could not find any beasts\nat all in the mountains, or in the fields, or valleys, or woods. They\nthought this very strange. But by and by they came by accident to the\ncave where Saint Blaise lived.\n\nAnd there were the animals, all the fierce beasts whom they feared;\nlions, tigers, leopards, bears, and wolves, making their morning call\nupon Saint Blaise and sitting quietly about. In the midst was Blaise\nhimself, praying so earnestly that he never noticed the men with nets\nand spears who had come to entrap the beasts. Although the creatures\nwere frightened they did not move nor growl for fear of disturbing\ntheir master, but kept quite still, glaring at the soldiers with big\nyellow eyes. The men were so astonished at the sight that they stole\naway without capturing an animal or saying a word to Saint Blaise, for\nthey thought he must be Orpheus or some heathen god who charmed wild\nbeasts. They went to the Governor and told him what they had seen, and\nhe said,--\n\n\"Ho! I know he is a Christian. The Christians and the beasts are great\nfriends. Go and bring him to me straightway.\"\n\nAnd this time the soldiers went in the afternoon when the animals were\ntaking their after-dinner nap. So they found Saint Blaise quite alone,\nagain at his devotions. They told him he must come with them; but\ninstead of being frightened he said joyfully, \"I am ready, I have long\nexpected you.\" For he was a holy man willing to die for his faith, and\nholy men often knew what was going to happen to them.\n\nIt was on his way to prison that Saint Blaise cured his last patient,--a\nsick child whose mother brought him to the holy man's feet begging help.\nThe child had swallowed a bone and was choking to death, poor little\nthing. But Saint Blaise touched the baby's throat and the trouble was\ngone. This is why in olden times people with sore throats always prayed\nto Saint Blaise to make them well.\n\nThe good Bishop was put in prison. And after that they tortured him,\ntrying to make him promise not to be a Christian any longer. But Saint\nBlaise refused to become a heathen and to sacrifice to the gods. And so\nthey determined that he must die. They would have put him in the arena\nwith the wild beasts, but they knew that these faithful creatures would\nnot harm their friend. The beasts could not save him from the cruel men,\nbut at least they would not do anything to hurt him. Those which were\nstill left in the forest howled and moaned about his deserted cave, and\nwent sniffing and searching for him everywhere, like stray dogs who have\nlost their master. It was a sad day for the wood-creatures when Saint\nBlaise was taken from them forever.\n\nThe soldiers were told to drown Saint Blaise in the neighboring lake.\nBut he made the sign of the Cross as they cast him from the boat, and\nthe water bore him up, so that he walked upon it as if it were a floor,\njust as Christ did once upon the sea of Galilee. When the soldiers tried\nto do the same, however, thinking to follow and recapture him, they sank\nand were drowned. At last of his own free will Saint Blaise walked back\nto the shore, clothed in light and very beautiful to look upon; for he\nwas ready and eager to die. He let the heathen seize him, and soon after\nthis was beheaded.\n\nIn very old times it used to be the custom in England on the third of\nFebruary to light great bonfires on all the hills,--_blazes_ in honor of\nhis name.\n\nAnd we can well believe that all the little animals came out of their\ndens and burrows and nests at the sight of these fires, and thought with\nloving hearts of the dear old Saint who so many years ago used to be\nkind to their ancestors, the beasts in the forests of Armenia.\n\n\n\n\nSAINT CUTHBERT'S PEACE\n\n\nSAINT CUTHBERT was a Scotch shepherd boy who tended his flocks along the\nriver Tweed near Melrose. Night and day he lived in the open air,\ndrinking in the sunshine and sleeping on the heather. And he grew up big\nand strong and handsome,--the finest lad in all that part of the\ncountry. He could run faster than any one, and was always the champion\nin the wrestling matches to which he challenged the village boys for\nmiles around. And you should have seen him turn somersaults and walk on\nhis hands! No one in all the world could beat him at that. Saint\nCuthbert lived more than a thousand years ago, and yet the people of\nScotland still tell tales of his strength and agility and grace in games\nwith the other boys. He was their leader and chief, and every one was\nsure that he would grow up to be a famous man.\n\nBut he tended his sheep faithfully until the time came. For he was\ngrowing and learning all the while. In his happy outdoor life he became\nwise in many things which other people never know. He found the secret\nof the whispering wind, and the song of the brook. He knew what the\nchatter of the squirrels meant, and the caw of the crows. He learned the\nways of all the little bright-eyed animals whom he met in his walks over\nthe hills of heather; and he grew to love every creature which has fur\nor feathers and goes upon four legs or on two. Especially he loved the\nbirds. He used to watch them for hours together, the little larks\ngurgling up and trilling down again; the great gulls swooping and\ncurling and sailing like white ships in the blue sea of sky. And he\nlonged, oh! how he longed to have wings and to flutter and float away\nlike the birds.\n\nOne night while he lay watching his sheep upon the pink heather which\nbears you up like a springy cushion, he saw a strange thing in the sky.\nThere seemed a great pathway of light, and down it a band of angels came\nfrom heaven, clothed all in rainbow glory. And in a little while he saw\nthem mounting back again, bearing a beautiful blossom among them. And he\nguessed that it was the soul of some holy man, being carried to\nParadise.\n\n[Illustration: SAINT CUTHBERT'S VISION]\n\nSure enough, the next day the news went abroad that Aidan, the holy\nBishop of Lindisfarne, had died that very night. Then Cuthbert knew\nthat he, a little shepherd boy, had been blessed to see a holy vision.\nHe wondered why; but he felt sure that it meant some special grace to\nhim. Day after day, night after night, he thought about it, wondering\nand wondering. And at last he made up his mind that he, too, would\nbecome a holy man, and then perhaps he should find out all about it.\n\nHe was fifteen years old when he came to Melrose Abbey to be made a\nmonk. And there he lived and grew rich with the wisdom of books; which,\nadded to the wisdom of the woods and hills and streams which he already\npossessed, made him a very wise man indeed.\n\nHe had not been there long before every one, even the Abbot himself, saw\nthat this glorious young monk was the most powerful of them all. Every\none obeyed and reverenced him. Every one came to ask his advice and\nhelp. Every one sent for him in time of trouble. With his beautiful face\nand strong body, his kind eyes and great hands tender as a woman's to\ntouch a little sick child, he was loved by the people in all the\ncountry around. For he had the great gift of sympathy. In those years\nwhile he had lived under the kind, hot sun his heart had grown mellow\nand soft like a ripe apple.\n\nMany of the people in the far-off hills and lonely Scotch moorlands were\nlike savages, wild and timid, hating every stranger. But the hearts of\nthese poor children of the heather warmed to the big brother who came\namong them with love shining in his eyes and a desire to help them. He\nused to trudge into the wildest, most distant places to reach them, to\nteach and comfort them. He was always carrying food and clothing to the\npoor and medicine to the sick, for he could not bear to see others\nsuffer. But he was not afraid of suffering himself.\n\nOne thing Cuthbert used to do which showed how strong and healthy he\nwas. Even until he grew to be quite an old man he used to take a bath in\nthe sea every day of his life. No matter how cold it was he would plunge\ninto the waves and come out all dripping upon the frozen beach, where he\nwould always kneel and say a little prayer before going home.\n\nOne bitter night in winter as Cuthbert knelt thus in the snow after his\nplunge, blue with cold, two brown otters came up out of the sea and\nstole to Cuthbert's side. And as he prayed, not noticing them at all,\nthey licked his poor frozen feet, trying to warm them, and rubbed\nagainst him with their thick, soft fur till he was dry again. Thus the\nwater-creatures did their little best for him who loved them and who had\ndone so much for others.\n\nWhen the Abbot Boswell died Cuthbert became head of the Abbey in his\nplace. But after twelve years of living indoors with the other monks he\ncould bear it no longer. For he longed to get out into the fresh air and\nunder the sky once more. He resolved to become a hermit, and to live a\nwild outdoor life with the birds whom he loved.\n\nHe built his nest on a wild little island named Farne, a steep, rocky\nsea-mountain where ten or fifteen years before had lived that same holy\nAidan whose passage to heaven he had witnessed when he was a shepherd\nboy at Melrose. The nest was really a hole in the ground--you know some\nbirds build so. He dug himself a round cell in the rock, the roof\nhaving a window open to his dear sky. The walls were of turf and stone\nand it was thatched with straw. There were two rooms, one where he lived\nand slept and cooked; the other for his little chapel, where he sang\npraises like any bird and sat for hours thinking holy thoughts. Before\nthe door he hung an ox-hide, and this was his only protection from the\nwinds of the sea. He found a spring in the rock and this supplied him\nwith water; and he planted a plot of barley which yielded him food.\n\nThus he lived, alone with the birds which swarmed about the rock. The\nwinds swept over him and the waves curled and broke almost at the door\nof his hut, but he did not care. Indeed, the sea was a rough friend to\nhim. Once when by mistake it came too near and washed away part of the\ncottage, Cuthbert sent to his brother monks on the mainland, asking them\nto bring him a beam to prop up the roof, for there was no wood on his\nrocky isle. But this the brothers forgot to do. The sea, however, seemed\nsorry for having been so careless, and at the next high tide it washed\nup at the Saint's feet the beam he wished.\n\nHe did not lack for friends. For, as soon as he made this island rock\nhis home, it became the haunt of every kind of bird. The other animals\ncould not reach him from the shore, poor things. But the blessed wings\nof the gulls and curlews, the eider-ducks and the ravens, bore them to\ntheir Master in his retreat.\n\n\"Hi!\" they said to one another, \"we have got him to ourselves now. Those\npoor, featherless creatures can't come here, neither can he get away,\nwithout wings. He is all our own now!\"\n\nThis was not quite true, for they forgot that though men cannot fly they\nmake boats with wings, and so can cross the sea. Cuthbert often went\nashore to do errands of mercy, in peasants' huts and in the Queen's\npalace. And many people came to see him also, because his fame had\nspread over the kingdom. He made them welcome to the house which he had\nbuilt for his guests as far as possible from his own solitary cell. He\nloved them, and helped them when he could. But after all, the birds\nwere his dearest friends, and he liked best to be alone with them.\n\nThey would come and sit upon his shoulders and knees and let him take\nthem up and caress them. They followed him in flocks when he went to\nwalk. They watched at the door of his hut and ate breakfast, dinner, and\nsupper with him. Many people believed that every day the birds brought\nhim food from Paradise, but this story arose, as so many false stories\ndo, from another thing that really happened. For once when some\nblackbirds thoughtlessly stole his barley and some of the straw from his\nroof, Cuthbert scolded them, and bade them never to do so again. It made\nthe birds ashamed, and to show that they were sorry they brought him a\ngreat lump of suet. He did not eat it, however, as they expected he\nwould, but used it to grease his shoes with, and it lasted a long time.\n\nNow Cuthbert loved all these birds dearly, especially the unselfish\neider-duck who picks the down from her own breast to make a softer bed\nfor her little ones. He was kind to them and they had no fear of him.\nBut he dreaded lest after he was gone others should be less kind to his\npets. So to protect them he made a promise, and he bequeathed them a\nlegacy, the gift of _Saint Cuthbert's Peace_. He promised that no one\nshould harm or kill them on that island without being dreadfully\npunished. And he gave them this Peace for ever and ever. So that\nthenceforth ill befell whoever injured one of Saint Cuthbert's birds.\nThere are two stories to prove this, and they both happened long after\nCuthbert was gone from Farne.\n\nNow Liveing was the servant of AElric, the hermit who next dwelt in\nCuthbert's cell. And one day while AElric was gone away to the mainland,\nLiveing killed and ate one of the eider-ducks who still lived and built\ntheir nests near the hut where the Saint had lived. Liveing knew the\npromise of Saint Cuthbert's Peace, but he thought that no one would find\nout his crime. For he scattered the bones and feathers over the cliff,\nand saw them washed away by the waves. But after AElric, his master, came\nback, he found a lump of bones and feathers rolled together and cast by\nthe tide upon the very steps of his chapel. For even the sea was\npromised to Saint Cuthbert's Peace, and had to betray the guilty man.\nSo Liveing was discovered and punished.\n\nAnd this is the second story. The birds themselves were bound by the\nPeace to be kind to one another. The big birds were forbidden to hurt or\nkill a little one. And this is what happened to a great hawk who flapped\nover from the neighboring island of Lindisfarne and ate up the tame\nsparrow which belonged to Bartholomew, another hermit who lived after\nAElric at Farne. For Saint Cuthbert's power made the hawk fly for days\naround and around the island, never able to get away, never able to\nstop, though he was ready to drop with weariness and hunger. He would\nhave kept on flying until now, or until he fell into the sea and was\ndrowned, if at last the hermit had not taken pity upon him. Bartholomew\ncaught the tired hawk by his wings and carried him to the seashore, and\nthere in Saint Cuthbert's name he bade him fly away, and never come back\nto Farne to bother him and his peaceful birds.\n\nSo Saint Cuthbert lived on his island surrounded by his feathered\nfriends. He never grew proud, though every one loved and reverenced him\nand called him a Saint. He was always poor, although royal ladies, even\nthe Queen herself, made him presents of gold and jewels,--which he gave\naway to the needy. He was always meek, though Egfried the King himself\ncame all the way to Farne to make him a grand Bishop, kneeling on the\nground before Cuthbert and begging him to accept the gift. His life was\nlike a beacon to men, burning bright and clear. And after he died a\nlighthouse was built on his rock to be a spark of hope for the sailors\nat sea.\n\nAs for Saint Cuthbert's Peace, it still blesses the lonely rock of\nFarne. Flocks of sea-birds swarm about it, descendants of those who knew\nthe Saint himself. They are tame and gentle and suspect no harm from any\none, for have they not the promise of their Saint? Alas! Men less kindly\nthan he have forgotten the promise and have broken the Peace. They have\nkilled many of the trusting birds who let them come up close and take\nthem in their hands, expecting to be petted. For the birds never even\nthought to run away, poor, innocent, soft-eyed creatures. And how\ncruelly they were deceived!\n\nBut I am sure that Saint Cuthbert's dreadful charm still binds the\nmurderers. He will not forget his promise; and though they may not be\npunished immediately, as Liveing was, nor suffer like the wicked hawk,\nSaint Cuthbert will bring sorrow upon their heads at last and misfortune\nto the cruel hands which dare to hurt his birds.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BALLAD OF SAINT FELIX\n\n\n          IT was in sunny Italy\n            Where skies are blue and fair,\n          Where little birds sing all the day,\n            And flowers scent the air.\n\n          But sorrow was through all the land,\n            And bloody deeds, and strife,\n          For the cruel heathen Emperor\n            Was slaying Christian life.\n\n          And Nola of Campania\n            Was full of soldiers grim,\n          Who sought where good Saint Felix dwelt,\n            To be the death of him.\n\n          For he, the Bishop, old and wise,\n            Was famous far and near,\n          And to the troubled Christian folk\n            His name was passing dear.\n\n          Saint Felix would not run away,\n            But thought no shame to hide\n          Until the bloody storm passed o'er,\n            And he might safely bide.\n\n          And so he doffed his Bishop's robe,\n            And donned a Pilgrim's dress,\n          With hat and staff and sandal-shoon,\n            So none his name would guess.\n\n          Now as Saint Felix, bent and gray,\n            Was tottering down the street,\n          A band of soldiers, fierce and wild,\n            The old man chanced to meet.\n\n          \"Ho! Pilgrim,\" cried the Captain stern,\n            Who stopped him with his sword,\n          \"Answer me truly, or thy life\n            Shall pay the lying word.\n\n          \"We sought for Felix at his home,\n            We find him not, alas!\n          Say, hast thou met him, for within\n            The hour he did pass?\n\n          \"Say, hast thou met him? Tell us true,\n            Or thou shalt lose thy head.\"\n          Saint Felix looked him in the eyes,\n            \"I _met_ him not,\" he said.\n\n          So then the soldiers let him pass,--\n            But he had spoken truth,--\n          And hurried forward on their search,\n            A fruitless quest, in sooth!\n\n          And good Saint Felix hastened too,\n            As quickly as he might,\n          For they would guess full soon, he knew,\n            How he had tricked their sight.\n\n          And truly, ere his oaken staff\n            Had helped his feeble feet\n          To win a mile, he heard their shouts\n            A-nearing down the street.\n\n          He heard the clashing of their swords,\n            Their voices' cruel roar,\n          Alack! the chase was almost done,\n            For he could speed no more.\n\n          All breathless, worn, and clean forspent\n            He looked about him there;\n          He spied a tiny ray of hope,\n            And made a little prayer.\n\n          There was a broken, ruined wall\n            That crumbled by the road,\n          And through a cleft Saint Felix crept,\n            And in a corner bode.\n\n          It was a sorry hiding-place,\n            That scarce could hope to 'scape\n          The keen sight of those bloody men,\n            For murder all agape.\n\n          But lo! in answer to his prayer\n            Made in the Holy Name,\n          To help Saint Felix in his need\n            A little spider came.\n\n          And there across the narrow hole\n            Through which Saint Felix fled,\n          The spider spun a heavy web\n            Out of her silken thread.\n\n          So fast she spun, so faithfully,\n            That when the soldiers came\n          To pause beside the ruined wall\n            And shout the Bishop's name.\n\n          They found a silken curtain there\n            Wherethrough they could not see;\n          And \"Ho!\" they said, \"he is not here,\n            Look, look! it cannot be;\n\n          \"No one has passed this spider's web\n            For many and many a day,\n          See, men, how it is thick and strong;\"\n            And so they went away.\n\n          And this is how Saint Felix fared\n            To 'scape the threatened doom,\n          Saved by a little spider's web,\n            Spun from her wondrous loom.\n\n          For when the soldiers all had passed\n            It luckily befell,\n          Among the ruins of the walls\n            He found a half-dug well.\n\n          And there he hid for many months,\n            Safe from the eager eyes\n          Of all those cruel soldier-men\n            And money-seeking spies.\n\n          And on the eve when this thing happed,\n            It chanced a Christian dame\n          Was passing by the ruined wall\n            Calling her Bishop's name.\n\n          For well she knew he must be hid,\n            And came to bring him food;\n          And so he answered from the well,\n            Saint Felix, old and good.\n\n          And for the many weary months\n            She came there, day by day,\n          All stealthily to bring him bread,\n            So no one guessed the way.\n\n          And when at last the peace was made,\n            Saint Felix left his well.\n          What welcome of his folk he had\n            There are no words to tell!\n\n\n\n\nSAINT FRONTO'S CAMELS\n\n\nTHIS is a story of Egypt. In the midst of a great yellow sea of sand was\na tiny green island of an oasis. Everywhere else the sunlight burned on\nsand and rocks and low, bare hills to the west. But here there was shade\nunder the palm-trees, and a spring of cool, clear water. It seemed a\npleasant place, but the men who were living here were far from happy.\nThere was grumbling and discontent; there were sulky looks and frowns.\nYet these men were trying to be holy hermits, to live beautiful lives\nand forget how to be selfish. But it is hard to be good when one is\nstarving.\n\nThere were seventy of them in this lonely camp in the desert,--seventy\nhungry monks, who for many days had had only a few olives to eat. And\nthey blamed one man for all their suffering. It was Fronto who had\ninduced them to leave the pleasant monastery at Nitria, where the rest\nof their brethren were living in peace and plenty. It was Fronto who had\nled them into this miserable desert to serve God in solitude, as holy\nmen loved to do in the early days of Christendom.\n\nFronto was a holy man, full of faith and courage. He had promised that\nthey should be fed and cared for in the desert even though they took no\ncare for themselves, and they had believed him. So each monk took a few\nolives in his pouch and a double-pronged hoe to dig and plant corn with,\nand followed Fronto into the desert.\n\nAfter trudging many days they found this spot, far to the east, where no\ncaravans would come to interrupt them, for it was out of the way of\ntravel. But soon also they found their provisions gone and no others\nforthcoming. What were they to do? They asked Fronto, but he only bade\nthem be patient. It was when they had borne the pangs of hunger for\nseveral days that they began to grumble and talk of returning home. But\nFronto was indignant. \"The Lord will provide,\" he said, \"O ye of little\nfaith!\" And he bade them go to work and try to forget their hunger. The\nmonks drew the cords tighter about their waists. But that did little\ngood. They had never fasted like this before! Day by day they grew more\npale and thin, and their long robes flapped about their lean limbs. The\nfew dates which grew on the palm-trees of their oasis were long since\neaten, and the poor monks went about chewing the knotted ends of their\nrope girdles, trying to pretend that it was bread. Oh, how they longed\nfor even a bit of the hard black bread which was Lenten fare at the\nmonastery beyond the hills!\n\nDay by day they grew more hollow-cheeked and despairing. At last one\nevening they came to Fronto in a body--such a weak, pale body. \"Take us\nback to Nitria, or we starve!\" they cried. \"We can endure this no\nlonger!\"\n\nFronto stood before them even more pale and worn than the rest, but with\nthe light of beautiful trust in his eyes. \"Wait yet a little longer,\nbrothers,\" he begged. \"We are bidden to take no thought to the morrow,\nwhat we shall eat and drink\"--\n\n\"Nay, 'tis to-day we think of,\" interrupted the monks. \"If we could eat\nto-day we would indeed take no thought of the morrow. But we starve!\"\n\n\"Patience, brothers,\" continued the Saint wearily. \"If we return now we\nshall show that we distrust God's promise. Wait till to-morrow. If help\ncome not then, I give ye leave to go, without me. I shall not return.\"\n\nThe monks withdrew, still grumbling and unhappy. But the words of the\nSaint had made some impression, and they agreed to wait until morning.\nEach monk stretched himself on his goatskin mat on the floor of the\nlittle cell which he had dug in the sand. And with groans of hunger\nmingled in their prayers they tried to go to sleep and forget how long\nit was since their last breakfast.\n\nBut Fronto could not sleep. He was sad and disappointed because his\nbrothers had lost their faith, and because he felt alone, deserted in\nthis desert by the friends who should have helped him with their\nsympathy and trust. All night he knelt on his goatskin mat praying that\nthe Lord would fulfill His promise now, and prove to the doubting monks\nhow mistaken their lack of faith had been. The other monks slept a\nhungry sleep about him, dreaming of delicious things to eat. Now and\nthen one of them would cry out: \"Another help of pudding, please;\" or\n\"Brother, will you pass the toast?\" or \"Thank you, I will have an egg,\nbrother.\" And Fronto wept as he heard how faint their voices were.\n\nAt last the pink fingers of morning began to spread themselves over the\nface of the sky, pinching its cheeks into a rosy red. Suddenly Fronto,\nwho was on his knees with his back to the door of his cell, started.\nHark! what sound was that which came floating on the fresh morning air?\nSurely, the tinkle of a bell. The good Saint rose from his mat and went\nhastily to the door, his sure hope sending a smile to his pale lips and\ncolor to his hollow cheek. He knew that his prayer was answered. And lo!\naway in the northwest he saw a thread of black, crawling like a\ncaterpillar over the sand toward his oasis. Nearer and nearer it came;\nand now he could see plainly what it was,--a line of great rocking\ncamels, the little tinkling bells on whose harness gave the signal that\nhope was at hand.\n\nBut the sound had waked the other monks. With a cry of joy they came\ntumbling out of their cells and rushed toward the camels, which were\nnow close to the camp. How the poor monks ran, to be sure, many of them\ntripping over the skirts of their long robes and falling flat in the\nsand from their weakness and excitement. They were like men on a sinking\nship who had just caught sight of a rescuing sail. Some of them jumped\nup and down and clapped their hands like children, they were so glad.\nAnd tears stood in the eyes of nearly all.\n\nThere were seventy camels, soft-eyed gentle creatures, whose flat feet\nheld them up on the soft sand like snowshoes. They bore packs upon their\nbacks which promised good things, and they came straight to the cell of\nFronto, where they stopped. And what a welcome they received! The monks\nthrew their arms about the beasts' necks, as they knelt on the sand, and\nkissed the soft noses as though they were greeting long-lost brothers.\nThey were so glad to see the camels themselves that they almost forgot\nto wonder whence they came, or what they were bringing. But Fronto was\nlooking for their owner, for the man who drove them. There was no one\nto be found. They had come all alone across the desert, without any one\nto guide them. Fronto's face was full of joy. \"The Lord has sent them!\"\nhe said. And the other monks bowed their heads, and were ashamed because\nthey had doubted.\n\nHungry though they were, first of all the good monks tended the tired\nbeasts who had come so far to save them. They relieved them from their\nheavy loads, and tenderly washed their hot, weary feet, and gave them\ndraughts of the spring water. Some of the starving monks skurried away\nto gather the green grass of the oasis for their hungry friends, and\nothers unfastened the bales of hay which some of the camels had brought,\nand made beds for the animals to lie on. Then they all fell to and built\na fold for the seventy camels in the shade of the palm-trees. And here\nthey left the patient creatures to rest and chew their cud with a sigh\nof relief that the long, hot journey was over.\n\nThen the monks hurried back to Fronto, wondering if it were not now\nalmost time for their breakfast. They came upon him reading a letter\nwhich he had found on the harness of the foremost camel. It was written\nfrom the city of Alexandria, and it explained how the camels had been\nsent.\n\nFour nights before this, Glaucus, the rich merchant, had been resting on\na couch in his summer house. He had just finished an excellent dinner,\nwith all his favorite fishes and meats and fruits and sweets, and he was\nfeeling very happy. When suddenly he thought of the seventy monks who\nhad gone out from Nitria many days before to live in the desert with the\nhelp which the Lord should send. And a pang smote him. Perhaps they were\nstarving now, while he was feasting. And he wished he could help them to\na dinner as good as his. Ha! an idea came to him. Why should he not\nindeed send them a dinner--many dinners? It should be done.\n\nSo the next morning he had loaded seventy camels with provisions, five\nof them with bales of hay for the camels themselves. And taking them to\nthe border of the desert, without driver or any one to guide them, he\nhad sent them out into the sea of sand, the great ships of the desert,\nto find the right harbor by themselves. For somehow he felt sure that\nthe Lord would guide them safely to the monks. Here the letter of\nGlaucus ended.\n\nOh, how good that breakfast tasted to the poor, famished monks! There\nwere all kinds of fruit,--fresh figs and olives and dates, citrons and\njuicy grapes and yellow pomegranates. There were bread and oil which the\nmonks loved, and nuts and combs of the most delicious golden honey such\nas it makes one's mouth water to think of. Glaucus had sent them a\nbreakfast fit for a king. And they all sat down on the sand in a happy\ncircle and had the finest picnic that was ever seen in that desert.\n\nWhen they had eaten they went out once more to visit the camels who had\nsaved their lives, and to thank them with caressing words. The camels\nseemed to understand, and looked at them with gentle eyes, chewing their\ncud earnestly as if thinking: \"You see, the Lord was looking out for you\nall the time. We are only poor, dumb beasts; but we came straight to you\nacross the desert without any fear or wandering, because we trusted. Why\nwere you not trustful, too?\"\n\nAnd again the monks were very much ashamed, and went back to Fronto to\nbeg his forgiveness, promising never again to be faint-hearted nor to\nlose faith.\n\nThe next morning they made ready to send back the camels to Alexandria.\nFor they knew Glaucus would be anxious to hear how his ships of the\ndesert had fared on their errand. And half the provisions they returned,\nfor they had more than enough to last them a year, according to their\nsimple meals. Then, with tears in their eyes, the monks sent the great\nbeasts forth again into the desert, confident that as they had come so\nthey would find their way back to Alexandria, safe and sound. Each in\nhis cell door the monks stood and watched them slowly winding away over\nthe yellow sand, disappearing at last behind the hills which rose like\ngreat waves between them and the world of cities.\n\nNow it was eight days since Glaucus had sent out the camels, and he was\ngrowing uneasy. Seventy camels are a valuable property, which even a\nrich man could not afford to lose. Glaucus feared that he had been\nfoolish; the desert was full of robbers, and there was no one to protect\nthis leaderless caravan. Would the Lord take care of affairs which were\nleft wholly to His direction?\n\nGlaucus was sitting with his family in the garden, silent and gloomy.\nHis family felt that he had been rash, and they did not hesitate to tell\nhim so, which made him still more unhappy. The leader-camel was the\nfavorite of Glaucus's daughter, AEmilia. She was crying in a corner of\nthe garden, thinking about her dear Humpo, whom she never expected to\nsee again. When, just as Fronto had done, she heard a far-away tinkle.\nShe jumped up and ran out to the road.\n\n\"What is it, AEmilia, my child?\" called out her father, startled by her\nsudden movement.\n\n\"Oh, Father, Father!\" she cried. \"I think I hear the tinkle of a camel\nbell among the mountains!\" And sure enough. As they all hurried down to\nthe garden gate the sound of little bells drew nearer and nearer. And\npresently came in sight the line of seventy camels, Humpo at the head,\nhalf of them loaded with the provisions which the monks were too\nunselfish to keep. And soon AEmilia had her arms about the neck of her\ndear Humpo, and was whispering nice things into his floppy ears as he\nknelt before her, looking lovingly at her with his big brown eyes.\n\nThus it was that Glaucus, the good rich man, knew that the Lord was\npleased with him for his kindness, and had helped him to do his duty.\nAnd every year after that he sent the seventy camels forth into the\ndesert on their unguided errand to the far-off oasis. So they grew to be\ndear friends of Saint Fronto and his monks, looked for as eagerly as\nSanta Claus is at Christmas time.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BLIND SINGER, SAINT HERVE\n\n\nI.\n\nONCE upon a time when Childebert was King of France, a thousand years\nago, there lived a young man named Hyvarnion who was very handsome and\nhad the sweetest voice. Hyvarnion was the King's minstrel; he lived at\nthe palace and it was his business to make music for the King to keep\nhim in a good temper. For he wrote the most beautiful songs and sang\nthem to the accompaniment of a golden harp which he carried with him\neverywhere he went. And besides all this Hyvarnion was very wise; so\nwise that when he was a boy at school he was called the Little Sage, for\nSaint Cadoc had been his master and had taught him many things that even\nthe King, who was a heathen, did not know.\n\nNow Hyvarnion had lived four years with the King when one night he had a\nwonderful dream. He dreamed that he saw a beautiful maiden picking\nflowers in a meadow, and that she smiled at him and gave him a blossom,\nsaying, \"This is for my King.\" And Hyvarnion woke up longing to see the\nmaiden more than anything else in the world.\n\nFor three nights he dreamed the same dream, of the singing maiden and\nthe meadow and the flowers; and each time she seemed more beautiful than\non the last. So on the fourth day he woke up and said, \"I must find that\nmaiden. I _must_ find her and hear her call me her King.\"\n\nSo, taking his golden harp on his back, he went out from the palace and\nstruck into the deep black forest. By and by he came to an open place,\nlike a meadow, where the grass grew tall and thick, and where in the\nmidst was a spring like a bit of mirror set in a green frame. And\nHyvarnion's heart beat fast with joy when he saw on the border of the\nspring the very maiden about whom he had dreamed, but much more\nbeautiful than any dream. She was bending over, picking something from\nthe grass, and she seemed like a wonderful pink-and-white flower set\namong the other flowers of yellow and red and blue.\n\nFor a moment Hyvarnion stood and gazed with open mouth and happy eyes.\nThen he took his harp and began to sing a song which he had just that\nminute made. For because he was a minstrel it was easier for him to sing\nthan to talk. And in the song he called her Queen Iris gathering flowers\nfor her crown. Then the maiden raised her head and she turned pinker and\nwhiter, and looked even more like a fair flower than before. For she too\nhad had a dream, three times. And it was of golden-haired Hyvarnion that\nshe had dreamed, whom she now saw looking at her and singing so sweetly\nwith his silver voice.\n\nBut she also answered him in a song, for she was a singer, too. \"I am no\nQueen Iris,\" she sang, \"I am only the little maiden Rivanone, though\nthey call me Queen of this Fountain. And I am not gathering flowers as\nyou say, fair Sir, but I am seeking simple herbs such as wise men use to\ncure pain and trouble.\"\n\n[Illustration: HYVARNION AND RIVANONE]\n\n\"What are the herbs you seek, Rivanone?\" asked Hyvarnion, coming nearer.\nShe held up a sprig of green in her white hand. \"See, this is the\nvervain,\" she answered in song; \"this brings happiness and heart's ease.\nBut I seek two others which I have not found. The second opens the eyes\nof the blind. And the third,--few may ever find that precious herb,--the\nthird is the root of life, and at its touch death flees away. Alas!\nFair Sir, I cannot find those two, though some day I feel that I shall\nneed them both most sorely.\" Rivanone sighed and two tears stood like\ndewdrops in her flower eyes.\n\nBut Hyvarnion had now come very close. \"Still, you have found the first,\nwhich gives happiness, little Queen,\" he sang tenderly. \"Have you not\nhappiness to share with me, Rivanone?\" Then the maiden looked up in his\neyes and smiled, and held out to him a sprig of the green vervain.\n\n\"For my King,\" she sang, just as he had dreamed. And then he did just\nwhat she had dreamed he would do; but that is a secret which I cannot\ntell. For no one knows all that a maiden dreams.\n\nAnd after this and that they came back to the King's palace hand in\nhand, singing a beautiful song which together they had made about\nHappiness. So they were married at the court, and the King did them\ngreat honor and made them King and Queen of music and of song.\n\nSo, happily they lived and happily they sang in their little Kingdom of\nPoesie,--for did they not possess the herb of joy which Rivanone had\nfound and shared with Hyvarnion, her King?\n\n\nII.\n\nBUT it was a pity that Rivanone had not also found those other plants\nfor which she had been seeking, the root which brings light to the\nblind, and the root which gives life to the dying. Because Rivanone had\nforeseen only too well the need of them which would come to her. For\nwhen, after a year or two, their little son was born, his blue eyes were\nsightless and all the colored wonders of the world were secrets which he\ncould never know. So they named him Herve, which means Bitterness,--the\nfirst bitterness which had come into their lives of joy. But it was not\nthe last. Not long after the little Herve came, golden-haired Hyvarnion\nlay ill and dying. And because on that spring morning, Rivanone had not\nfound the herb of life, she could not keep him from going away to find\nit for himself in that fair country where it is the only plant that\ngrows, with wonderful blossoms which no living man has ever seen.\n\nSo Hyvarnion passed away from his kingdom of music and song, which he\nleft to be shared by dear Rivanone and Herve his little son. Thus Herve\nbecame a Prince, heir to all the gifts of that royal pair. And of these\nthere were in particular four of the best: a beautiful face, the\nsweetest voice that ever thrilled in Brittany, the golden harp of\nHyvarnion his father, and many a lovely song made by those two, which\nRivanone taught him. What a wonderful Kingdom that was to be his! What\nbeautiful gifts for a little boy to own!\n\nBut even in a kingdom of this sort one has to bear sorrows and\ndiscomforts, just as folk do in other kingdoms which are less fair.\nHerve's name meant bitterness, and there was much bitterness in his\nlittle life before he learned what a Prince he really was. For he was\nblind and could not play with the other children. Rivanone was a poor\nwidow and there was no one to earn bread for the two. Sometimes the\ncarols which they sang together were the only breakfast to begin the\nday. Sometimes the songs Rivanone made beside his bed at night were the\nonly food Herve had tasted since sunrise. Sometimes they were both so\nhungry that they could not sing at all; and those were sad times indeed.\n\nBut when Herve was seven years old a great idea came to him. Rivanone\nlay ill and miserable, and there was nothing to eat in the house. Herve\nsat by her side holding her hand, and wishing there was something he\ncould do about it. Blind as he was he had never been out of the house\nalone. But suddenly courage came to him and hope, through his great\nidea.\n\n\"I will save you, dear mother!\" he cried, throwing his arms about her\nneck. \"I will take father's golden harp and go out upon the highway and\nsing your beautiful songs. People will give me pennies, and I shall buy\nyou food.\"\n\nSo, carrying the golden harp on his back, in his ragged clothes and bare\nfeet the little fellow went out stumbling and feeling his way along the\nhard road. Now almost at the first corner he met a white dog, who seemed\nto have no master. This creature came sniffing and whining up to Herve\nand licked his hand. And when the boy went on the dog followed close at\nhis side as if to guide and protect him. Herve asked every one he met\nwhose dog it was; but they all said it was a strange dog come from\nNo-where, and belonged to No-one. It seemed almost as if the beast had\nbeen sent especially for Herve. So at last he said, \"You shall be my\ndog,\" and at that the great white beast jumped up and barked for joy.\nHerve fastened a rope about the dog's neck and kept one end in his hand.\nSo now he had some one to guide and guard him, for the dog was very\ncareful and kind and took care that Herve never stumbled nor went astray\ninto the ditch by the side of the road.\n\nIt must have been a hard-hearted man indeed who had no pennies to spare\nfor the blind boy led by the big white dog. With his bare feet blue with\ncold, his teeth chattering, and his eyes turned wistfully up to the sky\nwhich he could not see, he was a sad little figure to meet on the lonely\nBrittany roads. And he sang so sweetly, too! No one had ever heard such\na voice as that, nor such beautiful songs. Every one who heard gave him\nmoney. So he was helping his mother, getting her food and medicine and\nclothes to keep her warm. And this thought comforted him when he was\nshivering with cold, his rags blown about by the wind and soaked in the\nrain.\n\nDay after day, week after week, Herve trudged along the flinty roads.\nOften he limped with cold, bleeding feet which the faithful dog would\ntry to lick warm again. Often he was very tired, and sometimes he was\nsad, when people were not kind. But this seldom happened. Once Herve was\npassing through a strange village where all the folk were heathen. And a\nband of naughty children began to dance about him and tease him, pulling\nhis hair and twitching his cloak. And they mocked his music, singing,\n\"Blind boy, blind boy! Where are you going, blind boy!\" Then it is said\nthat a wonderful thing happened. Herve was sorry because they were so\ncruel and unkind, and he struck a strange chord of music on his harp and\nsang in a low, clear voice,--\n\n\"Dance on, bright eyes who can see. Dance on, children who mock a poor\nblind boy. Dance on,--and never stop so long as the world wags.\" And it\nis said that the wicked children are still dancing, over the world and\nback, around and around, tired though they must be. And they will be\nstill more tired before all is done. For they must whirl and pirouette\nuntil the end of the world; and that is a long time even for children\nwho love to dance.\n\nAt a different time another unkind thing happened to Saint Herve. But\nthis time it was a beast who hurt his feelings. And this was strange;\nfor usually the beasts loved him and tried to help him as the white dog\nhad done. But after all this was only a mistake; yet it was a sad\nmistake, for it cost Herve the life of his faithful guide. This is how\nit happened.\n\nAs Herve and his dog were passing along a lonely road, a black wolf\nsprang out upon them. He mistook the dog for an ancient enemy of his,\nanother wolf. For indeed Blanco looked like a white wolf,--a wolf such\nas Saint Bridget gave the King of Ireland. And without stopping to find\nout who he really was, which would have saved all the trouble, they had\na terrible fight, and poor Blanco was killed by the huge black wolf.\n\nThen Herve was sad indeed. He cried and sobbed and was so wretched that\nthe wolf was sorry. Besides, as soon as the fight was over the wolf had\nfound out his mistake, and saw that it was a strange dog whom he had\nkilled, no wolf-enemy at all. He was very much ashamed. He came up to\nHerve and fawned at his feet, trying to tell that he was sorry, and\nasking what he should do about it. So Herve told him that if he would be\nhis dog now instead of Blanco he would try to forgive the wolf; though\nhe was, oh, so sorry to lose his faithful dog.\n\nAfter that Herve went on his wanderings led by a big black wolf whom he\nheld in a strong leather leash. And the wolf became as dear to him as\nBlanco had been. He slept in the barn with the oxen when he was at home,\nand never snapped nor bit at them as most wolves would do. But he kept\nsharp watch over his little master, and saw that no one hurt or cheated\nhim. I should be sorry to think what would have happened to any one who\nhad dared to touch Herve while the wolf was near. And he was always\nnear, with his sharp teeth and watchful eyes.\n\nSo they wandered and wandered together, Herve and the wolf, carrying\nmusic from town to town, the songs of Hyvarnion and Rivanone. But Herve\nhad not yet learned to make songs of his own.\n\n\nIII.\n\nNOW after seven years of wandering, Herve had earned money enough to\nkeep his mother in comfort. He longed to go to school and be taught\nthings, to grow wise like his father, who had been called the Little\nSage, and to learn how to make songs for himself. For he felt that it\nwas time for him to come into the kingdom of Hyvarnion and Rivanone; and\nthe songs shut in his heart were bursting to come out.\n\nGourvoyed, the brother of Rivanone, was a holy hermit who lived alone in\nthe forest, and he would teach Herve, his nephew, for love of him. For\nGourvoyed was a wise man, skilled in all things, but especially in the\nmaking of songs.\n\nIt was a blessed morning when Herve started for his school in the woods;\nhe was going to his kingdom! The sunlight framed his fair curls in a\nhalo of light, as if giving him a blessing. Birds sang all along the way\nas if telling him that with Gourvoyed he would learn to make music even\nsweeter than theirs. The wolf led him eagerly, bounding with joy; for he\nshared in all the hopes of Herve's life. And all the creatures knew that\nhe would become a great poet. And so indeed it was.\n\nFor Herve soon learned all that Gourvoyed could teach, and in his turn\nhe became a master. Many pupils came to the hut in the forest which the\nhermit gave up to him, and begged Herve to make them singer-poets like\nhimself. But he could not do that. He could teach them to sing and to\nplay the harp; but no one could sing as well as he sang, or play as well\nas he played. And no one can ever be taught to make poetry unless he has\nit in his soul, as Herve had. For that is a royal gift, and it came to\nHerve from Hyvarnion and Rivanone, the King and Queen of music and of\nsong. It was Herve's kingdom, and it was given him to take away the\nbitterness from his name, to make it remembered as sweet, sweet, sweet.\n\nAnd now on his wanderings from town to town Herve was received like a\nprince. He sat at great lords' tables, and sang in ladies' bowers. He\nhad golden goblets as his gifts, and shining gems to wear if he chose.\nBut he was so generous that he gave them all away. Never was there heard\nmusic so sweet as his; never were there songs so beautiful as he sang to\nthe rippling of his father's golden harp. For Herve was even a greater\nminstrel than Hyvarnion or Rivanone had been.\n\nIn his wanderings all about the country Herve came to many strange\nplaces and met with many strange adventures. Once he spent the night at\nthe castle of a great lord who made Herve sit on his right hand at table\nand honored him above all his guests. When the banquet was over, at the\nCount's request a page brought to Herve his golden harp, and they all\nshouted for \"A song! a song!\" Every one pushed back his stool to\nlisten, and Herve took the harp and ran his finger over the golden\nstrings with a sound like drops of rain upon the flowers.\n\nNow outside the castle, beyond the moat, was a pond. And in the pond\nlived a whole colony of great green bullfrogs, whose voices were gruffer\nand grummer than the lowest twanging note on Herve's harp. And as soon\nas Herve began to sing these rude frogs began to bellow and growl as if\ntrying to drown his music. Perhaps they were jealous; for Herve's voice\nwas sweeter than a silver bell. But all they could sing was \"Ker-_chog_!\nKer-r-kity-chog, Ker-_chog_!\" which is neither very musical nor very\noriginal, being the same tune which all the frog-people have sung from\nthe earliest days.\n\nNow Herve was displeased by their disagreeable noise. He could not sing\nnor play, nor think of the words which belonged with his music: only the\n\"Ker-_chog_! Ker-r-kity-chog! Ker-_chog_!\" sounded in his ears. And it\ngrew louder and louder every moment as one by one all the frogs joined\nin the chorus.\n\nHerve waited for them to stop. But when he found that they did not mean\nto do this, but were really trying to drown his voice, he was very\nangry. He strode to the window holding his harp in his hand. And leaning\nfar out he struck another of his wonderful chords of music, such as had\ncharmed the mocking children once before, as you remember.\n\n\"Sing your last song, O Frogs,\" he said. \"Sing your last Ker-_chog_, for\nhenceforth you will be silent. I command you from this night never to\nopen your mouths again. All save one, the littlest of you all. And he\nshall sing forever, without cease, to remind you of your rudeness to\nme.\" And no sooner had he ceased speaking when there came a great\nsilence outside the window, broken only by one wee piping tadpole voice.\n\"Ker-_chog_! Ker-r-kity-chog! Ker-_chog_!\" he chanted his sad little\nsolo. And all alone he had to sing and sing this same tune forever. I\ndare say one can hear him yet in the greeny pond outside that old French\ncastle.\n\n\nIV.\n\nNOW after many years of wandering, of singing, of making beautiful\nsongs, of teaching and wandering again, Herve's dear mother Rivanone\ndied. But he still had some one to love and look for him and the wolf\nwhen he came home from his travels. For Rivanone had adopted a dear\nlittle girl named Christine, beautiful as sunshine and sweet as a\nflower. She called Herve \"Uncle\" and loved him dearly, and the wolf was\na great friend of hers.\n\nSo at last he thought to settle down and make music about him in his own\nhome, letting people come there to hear it, instead of carrying it to\nthem by road and river. For he was growing an old man, and it was not so\neasy to travel in his blindness as it used to be. Besides, the black\nwolf was also growing gray, and needed rest after these long years of\nfaithful work.\n\nHerve resolved to build a church, and to live there with Christine near\nhim in a little house of her own. He had grown to be an important\npersonage in the world, and had many friends, pupils, and followers who\nwanted to live near him. So forth they set to find a place for their\nchurch, Herve and his troop of black-robed monks. And before them, like\na little white dove among the ravens, ran Christine holding her uncle's\nhand in one of hers, and in the other grasping the leash at which tugged\nthe grizzled old wolf, who was guiding them. Over many a hill and dale\nand bloomy meadow he had led Herve before now, down many a lane and\nvillage street, but never upon so important a journey as this. For this\nwas to be the old wolf's last long tramp with his master. And the wolf\nwas to choose the spot where the church should stand. Where he stopped\nto rest, there would they lay the first stone.\n\nSo he led them on and on. And at last he lay down in a green spot by a\nriver, just the place for a beautiful church to grow up. And thenceforth\nHerve the minstrel would wander no more, but bide and rest and be happy\nwith the wolf and Christine.\n\nThey built her an arbor near the church, in a clump of willows on the\nborder of a spring. It was cone-shaped and covered with straw like a\nhuge beehive. And Christine herself seemed like a busy bee gathering\nhoney as she buzzed in and out among the roses, humming little tunes\nbelow her breath. For she was always among the flowers, as Rivanone had\nbeen. Every Saturday morning she would rise early, and with her little\nbasket on her arm would go out to pick the blossoms with the dew still\non them. And every Saturday evening she came to the church with her arms\nfull of flowers till she looked like a bouquet of sweetness. And going\ninto the empty church she would busy herself with arranging the flowers\nfor the next morning's service. For it was her duty to see that Uncle\nHerve's church was kept clean and sweet and beautiful.\n\nAnd while Christine stood there putting the flowers into tall golden\nvases, singing softly the songs which Rivanone had taught her, her Uncle\nHerve would come creeping up the steps of the church, his hand on the\nhead of the wolf, who always led him to the place where he heard her\nvoice. Softly, very softly, as if he were doing something naughty,\nHerve would pull open the heavy door, just a crack, the better to hear\nher sing. Then he would put his ear to the opening; while the wolf would\nthrust his nose in below, and wag his tail eagerly. But Christine's keen\nears always heard them, no matter how slyly the good blind man crept up\nto that door. And it became part of the game that she should cry out\nsuddenly,--\n\n\"I see you, Uncle! I see you!\" And though he could not see her at all,\nhe would start and pop back, pulling the wolf with him as though he had\ndone something wrong. Then without making any noise they would tiptoe\naway to Herve's house, their hearts beating with love for the dear\nlittle maiden who would soon come to bid them good-night on her way home\nto her bower.\n\nSo they lived happily all the rest of their days, these three among the\nflowers. And in spite of his name Herve's life was not one of\nbitterness, but of joy. The kingdom which had come to him from Hyvarnion\nand Rivanone was his all his life long; and though he no longer wandered\npainfully from town to town, the songs which he made wandered still\nfrom heart to heart. And long, long afterwards their echo made music\nthrough the land of Brittany, as the fragrance of a flower lasts long\nafter the flower has passed on its way elsewhere.\n\nDear Saint Herve!\n\n\n\n\nSAINT COMGALL AND THE MICE\n\n\nAT the place where the Irish Sea is narrowest is the town of Bangor.\nThere the green hills of Saint Patrick's island smile over at the purple\ncliffs of Scotland across the lane of water where the ships pass to and\nfro, just as neighbors nod across a narrow street above the heads of the\npassers-by. And here at Bangor Saint Comgall built a monastery, thirteen\nhundred long years ago.\n\nThis does not sound very interesting, but it was interesting to many\npeople in those days, and I think it will be interesting to you. For\nComgall is an Irish word which means \"the goodly pledge.\" And the man\nwho bore this name was a goodly pledge of friendship between man and\nbeast. Comgall had many pupils in his monastery, and many friends living\nnear who loved and honored him. They did splendid things together, and\ntales of their doings were put into great books. But the most\ninteresting stories of all are about certain friends of Saint Comgall\nwho could not speak Irish and who did not wear clothes. Some of these\nfriends wore feathers and some wore fur; the strangest story of all is\nabout his friends with long tails and very sharp teeth. But you must\nwait for that till I have told about the swans.\n\nOne day Comgall was walking with some friends on the bank of a pond. All\nof a sudden, through the rushes and the tall grass some one spied six\nbeautiful white swans floating on the water, preening their fine\nfeathers and arching their necks proudly. For they could see in the\nwater, just as if it were a mirror, how handsome they were, and it made\nthem vain.\n\n\"Oh, Father,\" cried Comgall's pupils (they always called their teacher\n\"Father\" in those days), \"see the lovely swans! May we not coax them\nashore? We want to play with them.\"\n\nComgall chuckled inside, for he felt sure that the swans would not come\nto them, because they were strangers. But he said with a twinkle in his\neye,--\n\n\"Oh, yes, boys. Call them here if you can. But you must give them\nsomething to tempt them, or I fear they will hardly come.\"\n\nThen the boys tried to find a crust of bread or some crumbs in their\npockets, to throw to the swans. But no one had anything, not even a\npeanut; for peanuts were not invented in those days. They stood on the\nbank whistling and calling, trying in every way to make the swans swim\nashore. But the birds only cocked their red-rimmed eyes at the boys and\nfluttered their wings timidly.\n\n\"We don't know you,\" they squawked with their harsh voices. \"The like of\nyou are no friends of ours. Hurrooh! Go away and leave our pond in\npeace.\"\n\nAll this time Comgall had been standing behind them on the bank laughing\nat the vain attempts of his pupils. But now he walked quietly down to\nthe pond. Making a little croony sound in his throat, he put out his\nhand towards the swans, but with no crumbs to tempt them.\n\nThe swans had never before seen him. But as soon as they heard his voice\nyou should have seen the commotion! How the water did wrinkle and\nspatter as those dignified birds scurried headlong towards Comgall! Each\none seemed trying to be the first to reach his side; and each one\nflapped his wings and went almost into a fit for fear another should get\nahead of him. So finally they reached the bank and gathered around\nComgall, talking to him all at once and telling him how much they liked\nthe look of him. And one great white swan fluttered into the old man's\nlap and sat there letting himself be stroked and patted, stretching his\nlong neck up to Comgall's face and trying to kiss him with beaky lips.\n\nYou can imagine how the pupils stared at this strange sight. For they\nknew that the swans were as truly strangers to Saint Comgall as to the\nrest of them. But the swans had guessed in some way that this was a man\nwho loved all animals, and that is why they were not afraid, but loved\nhim as soon as they saw him.\n\nBut this next is the stranger story. Mice are harder even than swans for\nmost people to get acquainted with. But Comgall had also made the mice\nhis friends, as you shall see.\n\nThere came a time of famine in Ireland, and there was not food enough to\ngo around, as has often happened there from the earliest days until even\nnow. Comgall and his household at Bangor were very hungry. But what made\nit hardest to bear was that they knew where there was plenty of food\nclose by, if only they could get it. For Croadh was a great Prince who\nlived in the neighborhood, and Croadh had barns and storehouses full of\ngrain which could be made into bread. But he was a selfish, stingy man\nand would not give away or even sell his stores, for he would rather see\nthe people starve. Now Croadh had a wicked old mother living in his\npalace, who was even more cruel than himself. Her name was Luch, and\nLuch means in Irish \"the Mouse.\" And it was her name which put an idea\ninto Comgall's head.\n\nAfter sending all sorts of messengers to beg Croadh to give them some of\nhis grain; after trying all sorts of ways to make him sell it, Comgall\nwent himself to the Prince's palace to see what he could do. He carried\nwith him a beautiful silver goblet which had been given him by some one\nas a present, and it was worth many bushels of grain.\n\nComgall strode into the Prince's hall and stood before Croadh holding\nout the goblet in his hand. And he said,--\n\n\"Here, O Prince, is a valuable thing. We are starving in the monastery,\nand silver we cannot eat. Give me and my monks some of your golden grain\nand I will exchange for it the silver cup. Be merciful, O Croadh, and\nhear me.\"\n\nBut the Chief only laughed and said mockingly, \"Not so. You keep your\nsilver goblet and I will keep my golden grain. Your beggarly pupils\nshall not eat of my stores. I want all, every grain, for my old Mouse.\"\nAnd by that word he meant his mother, the black-eyed, wrinkled, gray old\nLuch, whose name meant \"the Mouse.\" For she was the most miserly,\nwicked, old woman in the world, and she had made him promise not to give\nup any of the grain. Then Comgall was angry, because he saw that the\nPrince meant to see the people starve.\n\n\"Very well,\" he said, fixing his eyes sternly upon Croadh, \"as you have\nsaid, so shall it be. The mouse shall have your grain.\" And drawing his\nrobe about him he strode home with the useless silver goblet.\n\nAs I have said, the mice were Comgall's friends. He had only to call\nthem and explain what the hard-hearted Prince had done; he had only to\ntell the mice what he wished them to do, and the matter was settled. The\nword spread through the kingdom of the mice, carried by the quickest\nmessenger with the shortest tail. All the mice became enemies of Croadh.\nAnd there were many mice in Bangor in those days.\n\nThat very night when every one was asleep, out of every hole and corner\ncame peeping little pointed noses and quivering whiskers. And a great\nprocession of long-tailed tiny things formed into line and crept along,\nand along, up the hill, and up the walls, and into the barns of Croadh.\nA legion of mice, thousands upon thousands of them in a gray-uniformed\narmy, pounced upon the Prince's precious grain and ate up every kernel.\n\nSo the next morning when Croadh went to his barns he found them empty.\nThere was not so much as a single yellow dot of grain left anywhere. But\nout of every crack and crevice peeped a pair of twinkling black eyes\nwhich watched him saucily. Then Croadh began to bellow and roar with\nanger, and the wicked old woman Luch, his mother, came hobbling in to\nsee what was the matter. But when the mice saw her they gave a chorus of\nfierce squeaks as if crying \"Mouse! Mouse! Mouse!\"\n\nThen Croadh remembered what Comgall had said, that the mouse should have\nhis grain after all. And he guessed what the Saint had meant, and knew\nthat Comgall had taken this way to punish a selfish and cruel man.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WONDERS OF SAINT BERACH\n\n\nTHE life of Saint Berach was full of wonders from the very first. For\nwhen he was a boy at home in the house of his father, Nemnald, he had a\nvision. An angel appeared to him and beckoned him to follow. So he went,\nand the angel led him straight to the monastery at Glendalough where\nholy Saint Coemgen lived with his friend the white doe, and taught\nboys to be wise. And Berach joined the other boys to be taught all that\nSaint Coemgen knew, and to learn other things beside.\n\nIreland was a wild country in those days, for this was only six hundred\nyears after Christ's birth and the little towns had hardly begun to\ngrow. The huts which men had made in the wilderness--calling them houses\nand schools and churches--were not close together but far, far apart.\nWild beasts prowled everywhere, and there were no policemen.\n\nClose by the monastery were the broad green meadows where the monks\npastured the herds of cows which gave them milk. From the windows of his\ncell the young monk loved to watch the cows and their calves browsing\nthe juicy grass and wading in the brooks which ran under the rows of\nwillows. He especially loved Bel, the sleekest, most beautiful of them\nall, a proud mother cow who had a new little red calf.\n\nOne day as he was watching Bel and her baby who had strayed a little\ndistance from the rest of the herd, he saw something which frightened\nhim. A great gray wolf was hiding in the shadow of a hedge, creeping\nnearer and nearer to the peaceful pair. But Bel did not guess that an\nenemy was so near. Berach hurried down the turret stair and out of the\ngate, hardly pausing to tell the brother porter whither he was going.\nFor he knew there was no time to lose.\n\nHe ran to the meadow, and pushed through the blooming hedge of\nhawthorne. But alas! he had come too late. The great gaunt wolf, who was\nvery hungry, had pounced upon the little red calf, and had eaten it up.\nPoor Bel, wild with grief, ran lowing about the pasture as if seeking\nfor her little one. But the wolf was slinking out of sight.\n\nWhen Berach saw what had been done, at first he was very angry with the\nwolf, for he loved Bel dearly, and it troubled him to see her sad. He\nthought how lonely the poor cow would be without her calf, and when she\ncame pitifully lowing up to him as if asking him to help her, the tears\nstood in his kind eyes. But then he thought how hungry the wolf must\nhave been. Poor thing, how thin and hollow he had looked,--perhaps he\nwas not so much to blame after all. Probably he had never been taught\nany better.\n\nAnd then a strange idea came to Berach. He was a wonderful man, and he\nmust have had great power over animals. For he called to the wolf, who\nwas already some distance away; he called loudly and in a stern voice.\nYou will hardly believe it, but the wolf came slinking back, frightened\nand whining like a naughty puppy, and crouched at Berach's feet. Then\nthe Saint spoke kindly to the wolf, no longer treating him like a\nmurderer and a thief. He called the cow also, and taking her by the\nhorns led her gently to the wolf, soothing her so that she was not\nafraid of the great gray beast.\n\nAnd Berach said to the cow, \"See, Mother Bel, this shall be your child\nnow, in place of the little one which is gone. He will be a kind and\ngentle son to you, I promise.\" And to the wolf he said, \"Here, Wolf, is\nthe mother whom you need to make you gentle and good. You shall be kind\nto her, and make her forget the wrong you have done by being a loving\nand dutiful son, ever doing her bidding.\" So after that the cow and the\nmeek wolf dwelt peacefully together in the meadows of the monastery, and\nhe shielded her from danger, and like a huge watchdog kept away the\nother wild beasts from the herd.\n\nAfter that came a winter when for weeks the ground was white with snow,\nand the laughing mouths of the brooks were sealed with ice. Duke\nColman's little son had been sent to school at the monastery, and the\nboy was very ill. He was hot and thirsty, and his throat was parched\nwith fever. So little Edward begged for juicy apples, and for salad of\nfresh sorrel leaves,--things which were not to be found in all the land\nin the dead of winter. But Coemgen the Abbot trusted in the power of\nhis young friend who could tame wolves. \"Go forth, my son,\" he said to\nBerach, \"take my staff and bring what the boy needs.\"\n\nThen Berach retired to his cell and prayed that he might be blessed to\nsave the dear child's life. After that with faith and courage he went\nout into the white meadows, using the Abbot's staff to help him over the\ngreat drifts of snow. He came to the row of willows by the frozen brook\nwhere the cows had loved to wade. And here he paused. Lifting the staff,\nhe touched the bare brown branches of the willow on which the snow clung\nlike shreds of cotton wool, and he pronounced a blessing. Instantly the\nsnow began to melt as it does before the sun in April. The stiff brown\ntwigs turned green and became tender and full of life. Then gray willow\nbuds put forth woolly little pussy-willows, which seemed fairly\nbursting, like fat round kittens. They grew bigger and bigger, rounder\nand rounder, till at last they really did burst, and plumped great\nrosy-cheeked apples into the lap of the Saint, who held up the skirt of\nhis gray gown to catch them as they fell. Lo, under the trees meanwhile\nthe snowdrifts had melted, and little green leaves were poking up\nthrough the frozen ground. And Berach gathered there a great bunch of\njuicy, tart sorrel which makes such good salad. Then with his arms\nfull,--what with this and his apples and the blessed staff,--he\nfloundered back through the snowdrifts to the monastery. They received\nhim eagerly and there was great rejoicing. Little Edward was revived by\nthe out-of-season dainties thus miraculously provided for him, and soon\nbecame quite well again.\n\nIt was many years after this, again a hard and cruel winter, when Saint\nBerach made another wonder come to pass. Meantime he had grown older and\neven wiser. He had himself been made Abbot and had built a monastery of\nhis own in a lonely place far away from Glendalough. But he had an\nenemy. There was a rich man who wanted the land which Berach had\nchosen, and who was so envious that he tried to do him spite in every\nway he could. He even sought to destroy the monastery. Then Berach\nappealed to the King for protection, and both men were summoned to the\ncourt.\n\nThe rich man went in a chariot, splendid in his fine robes of fur, with\na gold chain about his neck. And the guards hurried to let down the\nportcullis for him, and with low bows bade him enter. But when Saint\nBerach came he wore only his gray monk's robe, all torn and tattered. He\nwas shivering with cold, and weak from having walked so far. So they\nthought him a mere beggar and would not let him in. As he stood outside\nthe gate, friendless and alone, some rude boys who had gathered there\nbegan to laugh and jeer at his bare sandaled feet and the rents in his\nrobe through which the cold winds blew. They made snowballs and rushed\nupon him in a crowd, like the cowards they were, pelting the poor man\nmost cruelly. But suddenly, what do you think? Their arms stiffened as\nthey raised them to throw the balls; their legs stuck fast in the snow;\nthe grins froze on their faces; and they were almost choked by the\nshouts which turned to ice in their throats. What had happened? Well,\nSaint Berach had merely breathed upon them, and they were as if turned\ninto ice, so that they could not stir. Br-r-r! How cold they were!\n\nThen the Saint made ready to warm himself. A drift of snow had fallen\nfrom the palace gate when it opened to let in the rich man. And going up\nto this he blew upon it. He blew a warm breath this time. Instantly the\nwhole heap burst into flame, and snapped and crackled like the fire in\nthe chimney-place of the dining-hall at home. In front of this merry\nblaze the good Saint stood, warming his hands and thawing out his poor\nfrozen feet. But the group of boys stood like statues of snow; so cold,\nso cold, but unable to come nearer to the fire; so frightened, so\nfrightened, but unable to run away.\n\nThis is what the King's guards saw when, terrified by the crackling of\nthe fire and the great light which shone through the chinks of the gate,\nthey came to see what it all meant. They ran to the King and told him\nof the strange sight. And he himself with a crowd of courtiers came out\nto look. When he saw the ragged beggar who had done all this he was\nfilled with amazement. He immediately suspected that this must be a holy\nman and powerful. So he invited Berach into the palace hall, and there\nlistened to his story.\n\nNow when all was done the rich man was bundled away in disgrace, for\ndaring to meddle with the good works of so wonderful a Saint. But Berach\nwas honored and admired.\n\nBefore he went back to his monastery they begged him to restore the\nnaughty boys to life and motion. Now Berach had wanted only to teach\nthem a lesson, not to punish them too severely; for he was too\nkind-hearted to injure any living creature. So going out into the\ncourtyard he blew upon the snow figures, and once more they became live\nboys. You can imagine how glad they were when they found they were able\nto move their legs and arms again.\n\nNow Berach went back to his monastery in one of the King's chariots,\nwith a robe of fur and a gold chain about his neck. And you may be sure\nhe carried with him many other gifts and precious things from the King,\nwho never thereafter suffered him to be troubled in his far-off\nretreat.\n\n\n\n\nSAINT PRISCA, THE CHILD MARTYR\n\n\nSAINT PRISCA'S name has always been dearly loved, especially in England.\nJanuary eighteenth is the day which is sacred to her, and she lived over\nseventeen hundred years ago. She is one of the few child-martyrs whose\nnames have come down to us from those early days, although there were\nmany other brave children who suffered and were strong, and who, at\nlast, gave their lives to prove their faith.\n\nSaint Prisca was a little Roman girl whose parents were Christians of a\nnoble family. Claudius was the Emperor at that time, and though during\nhis reign the Christians were not persecuted in such numbers as they had\nbeen before that, still many cruel things were done here and there, and\nit was a dangerous thing to be a Christian.\n\nIt was in the evil times when one did not always dare to say what he\nreally thought, nor publicly to worship as he believed was right. Many\nof the Christians were not ashamed to conceal their real belief from\nthe heathen Romans, who were everywhere seeking with hatred for the\nfollowers of Christ, to torture and slay them.\n\nPrisca's father and mother had managed to keep their secret, and were\nnot suspected of being Christians. They probably went to church in the\nsecret chapels which the Christians had dug deep in the ground under the\ncity. In these dark, gloomy catacombs, as they were called, the\nChristians held services directly under the feet of the cruel Romans,\nwho were passing overhead without suspecting what was going on so near\nto them.\n\nBut Prisca scorned to use any precaution. Small and defenseless though\nshe was, she did not fear to tell every one what she believed and Whose\nCross she followed. So she soon became known as a firm little Christian\nmaiden. And there were people in the city cruel enough and wicked enough\nto hate even a little child-Christian and to wish her evil.\n\nThese persons reported to the Emperor's officers her brave words of\nfaith, and told them how she would not sacrifice to the Roman gods as\nthe other children did. So very soon she was seized by the guards and\nbrought before the Emperor.\n\nClaudius looked at the little maid in surprise to find her so young. And\nhe thought: \"Ho! I shall easily make this small Christian change her\nmind and obey me.\" And he bade his men take her to the temple of Apollo\nand make her offer incense to the beautiful god of the silver bow. So\nthey carried her to the top of the Palatine, one of the seven hills on\nwhich Rome was built.\n\n[Illustration: SAINT PRISCA]\n\nThey first passed under a great marble arch and came into a fair\ncourtyard surrounded by fifty-two marble pillars. In the centre of this\nspace stood the temple of Apollo, the most magnificent building in all\nRome. With its ivory gates and wonderful groups of statues, its inlaid\nmarble floors and altars wreathed with flowers, its golden tripods\nbreathing incense, its lamps and beautiful silver vases, it was a very\ndifferent place from the bare, dark caverns in which the Christians\nworshiped. In front of the temple was a group of four oxen made of\nbronze, and in the centre of this group burned a fire upon a golden\ntripod. This was the altar to Apollo, the sun-god, whose enormous\ngolden statue, in his four-horse chariot, stood over the door of the\ntemple just above. He was the likeness of a beautiful youth with a\nwreath of bay about his head, carrying a bow in his hand, with which\nApollo was believed to shoot the sunbeams down upon the earth.\n\nThey thrust incense into Prisca's hand and bade her throw a few grains\ninto the fire in honor of the beautiful god of the sun. It seemed a very\nsimple thing to do, to save her life,--just to scatter a handful of dark\npowder on the flames. Prisca loved the dear sun as well as any one, but\nshe knew it was foolish to believe that he was a god, and wicked to\nworship his statue in place of the great God who made the sun and\neverything else. So Prisca refused to burn the incense.\n\nThen the Emperor was very angry, and bade the soldiers whip her until\nshe obeyed his command. But they could not make her yield by cruelty.\nEven the hard-hearted Romans who had come to look on admired her bravery\nand pitied her suffering. The women wept to see her so cruelly treated,\nand the men cried, \"Shame! shame! To torture a little child.\"\n\nAnd then a beautiful thing happened; for Prisca appeared dressed in a\nrobe of yellow sunshine. A wonderful light shone all about her, and she\nseemed herself a little star giving out light, so brightly did her brave\nspirit shine among those cruel men.\n\nIt seemed as if no child could bear all this suffering without yielding,\nand the Emperor hoped she would give in, for he did not want to have her\nkilled. But Prisca was firm, and would not make the sacrifice. The\nEmperor was surprised to find a child so brave. He ordered them to drag\nher away to prison and to keep her there for many days. Here she was\nmost unhappy,--lonely and cold and hungry often, wondering what dreadful\nthing was to happen next. But her heart was always brave, and she was\nnot afraid.\n\nAfter a long time, one morning the guard came for little Prisca. They\nled her forth into the dear sunshine, and glad she was to see it and the\nblue sky once more. But it was only for a short time that they let her\nenjoy even this little pleasure; for they brought her to the\namphitheatre, a great open place like the circus, with tiers upon tiers\nof seats all about, and crowds of faces looking down into the centre\nwhere she was.\n\nPrisca knew what this meant, for she had often heard how the Christians\nwere put into the arena to be torn in pieces by wild beasts. And\nkneeling down on the sand she made a little prayer, not that she might\nbe saved from the fierce beasts, but that she might have courage to show\nher Christian bravery and teach a lesson to these fiercer men and women\nwho were looking on.\n\nThen the keeper opened the grated door of a den at the end of the arena,\nand out stalked a great yellow lion. With a dreadful roar he rushed into\nthe centre of the circle, and stood there lashing his tail and flashing\nhis big yellow eyes all about the place. Then suddenly he spied the\nlittle girl standing quietly at one side with her hands clasped in front\nof her, looking at him without fear. And the great beast strode gently\nup to her on his padded paws. He bent his head and licked her little\nbare feet, and then he crouched down by her side, as a Saint Bernard dog\nmight place himself to guard his little mistress. And this is why the\nold pictures of Saint Prisca represent her with a lion by her side.\n\nThere fell a great silence on the tented place. The Emperor and all the\npeople sat perfectly still, wondering at the strange sight and admiring\nthe courage of the child; for she had reached out her hand and was\nstroking the yellow head of the lion, playing with his mane. She bent\nher head and no one heard her whisper into his ear:--\n\n\"My good friend! you will not hurt me, I know, for the Lord has closed\nyour mouth, just as he did the mouths of the lions into whose den Daniel\nwas thrown by wicked men. These cruel men will put me to death, but you\nare kinder than they.\"\n\nAnd the lion looked up in her face as though he understood, and growled\nsoftly. He was quite gentle with her, but when the keeper came towards\nthem he roared and bristled and showed his great teeth, so that for a\nlong time no one dared to come near.\n\nBut even the lion could not save her from the death which she had no\nwish to shun. At last they captured him and took him away. The Emperor's\nheart was softened by Prisca's bravery, and he wished to give her one\nmore chance to save her life. They shut her up for many days in the\nheathen temple, and tried in every way to make her sacrifice to the\ngods and give up Christianity. They coaxed her and made her fine\npromises; they threatened and punished her. But still Prisca stood firm,\nalthough she was now very worn and tired and ill because she had\nsuffered so much.\n\nSo when she had borne it all patiently and bravely, and they saw it was\nimpossible to make a little Christian turn back again into a little\nheathen, they led her away down the road which leads south from the\nPalatine hill, to the place of execution. This was just outside the\nOstian gate, an archway in the great wall which surrounded Rome, through\nwhich the road led to the town of Ostium and to the sea. Just outside\nthis gate, to show that they were no longer worthy of being Romans and\nliving within its walls, criminals were executed. And here many\nChristian martyrs lost their lives. Prisca was one of these, for here\nshe was beheaded. And till the very end she neither cried nor screamed\nnor was in any way afraid. And so she became Saint Prisca, a little\nmartyr.\n\nThen another strange thing befell. When she died a great eagle appeared\nin the sky, hovering over Saint Prisca's body far up in the air. And\nwhen any of the Romans ventured near her the eagle swooped down upon\nthem with dreadful cries and flapping of his wings. And his round gray\neyes looked so fierce and his claws so long and sharp, that no one dared\nto touch her for fear of the bird. Saint Prisca had found another\nprotector in cruel Rome. And this is why many of the old pictures of\nSaint Prisca's martyrdom show a great eagle hovering over her.\n\nThe creature guarded her body night and day, driving every one away,\nuntil the Christians, who had been waiting for the chance to venture\nout, came secretly one night and carried her away. They buried her where\nthe Romans could not find her, in their little secret cemetery in the\ncatacombs. This is how Saint Prisca lived and died two hundred and\nseventy years after Christ's birth. But I wish we knew what became of\nthe noble lion and the devoted eagle.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FISH WHO HELPED SAINT GUDWALL\n\n\nTHE Welsh coast is famous for its beautiful scenery and its terrible\nstorms. People who see it in the summer time think only of the beautiful\nscenery. But if they should happen to pass that way in midwinter they\nwould be very apt to meet an unpleasant reminder of the terrible storms.\n\nSaint Gudwall was born a Welshman, and he should have known all this.\nPerhaps he did know, but chose to run into danger just because it was\ndangerous, as so many saints loved to do in those years when it was\nthought no virtue to take care of one's life. At all events, it was\nsummer when with one friend Gudwall moved to his new home, a tiny island\noff the coast of Wales, which at that time was very beautiful.\n\nThe first thing they did was to set about finding a place to live in.\nThe island was one of those high mountains poking up out of the sea,\nwith green grass on top, like colored frosting to a cake; and gray\nrocks below, all hollowed out into deep caves and crannies, as if mice\nhad been nibbling at the cake. These caves are just the sort of places\nwhich smugglers and pirates choose to hide in with their treasures, for\nno one would think of hunting for any one there. And Gudwall wanted to\nbe left alone with his pupil; so he thought there was no reason why a\nbad man's hiding-place should not make a good saint's retreat. So they\nchose the largest and deepest of all the caves, and there they put their\nbooks and their beds and their little furniture, and set up\nhouse-keeping.\n\nTheir home was one of those caves into which the sea rushes a little way\nand then suddenly backs out again as if it had changed its mind this\ntime but would call again. Gudwall and his pupil loved to lie in their\ncave just beyond the reach of the waves and watch them dash laughingly\nup on the rocks, then roar and gurgle in pretended anger and creep away\nout into the blue basin beyond. In summer their daily games with the sea\nwere great fun, and Gudwall was very happy. They spent some lovely\nmonths alone with the waves and the rocks and the sea-birds which now\nand then fluttered screaming into the dark cave, and then again dashed\nbashfully out when they found they had come uninvited into a stranger's\nhome. It was all very nice and peaceful and pretty in the summer time,\njust as tourists find it to this day.\n\nBut oh! what a change when old Winter came roaring down over the waves\nfrom the North in his chariot of ice, drawn by fierce winds and angry\nstorm-clouds. Then the temper of the sea was changed. It grew cruel and\nhungry. It left off its kindly game with the lonely dwellers on the\nisland, and seemed instead to have become their enemy. It tried to seize\nand swallow them in its cruel jaws.\n\nOne morning there came a terrible storm. In the far end of the cave\nGudwall and the other were nearly swept away by a huge wave which rushed\nin to devour them. No longer content with pausing on the threshold, the\nsea swept through their whole house, dashing away their little store of\nbooks and furniture, a most unneighborly thing to do. It tried to drag\nthe two men from the corner where they clung to the rough rock. Choked\nand gasping they escaped this time, while the sea drew back for another\nplunge. But they did not wait for this, for they knew it would mean\ntheir death.\n\nDrenched as they were and blinded by the salt spray, they scrambled out\nof the cave and began to climb the slippery seaweed to the rocks above.\nIt was a hard and dangerous ascent, for the sea leaped after them to\npull them back, snarling angrily at their heels like a fierce beast\nmaddened by their escape. But it could not quite seize them, and at last\nthey reached the top of the cliff where they were safe for the time.\n\nBut what were they to do now? There were no houses on the island, no\nplace to go to keep warm; yet they could not live out in the open air to\nfreeze in the snow and cold. It was no longer possible to live in the\ncave if the sea was to wash through it like this. But if only there were\nsome barrier to keep out the stormy waves they could still live in their\nbeloved cave. Saint Gudwall fell upon his knees and prayed for\nhelp,--prayed for some defense against the winter waves.\n\nAnd what do you think happened? The dwellers in the sea were kinder than\nthe sea itself. The little fish who live safely in the angriest waves\nwere sorry for the big men who were so powerless in the face of this\ndanger. From the sea caves far under the island's foot, from the beds of\nseaweed and the groves of coral, from the sandy bottom of the ocean\nfathoms deep below, the fish came swimming in great shoals about\nGudwall's island. And each one bore in his mouth a grain of sand. They\nswam into the shallow water just outside the cave where Gudwall had\nlived, and one by one they placed their burdens on the sandy bottom. One\nby one they paused to see that it was well done, then swiftly swam away,\nto return as soon as might be with another grain of sand. All day long a\nprocession of fish, like people in line at a ticket office, moved\nsteadily up to the shallows and back again. So by night a little bar of\nsand had begun to grow gradually before the entrance to the cave.\n\nNow Saint Gudwall and his pupil were shivering on the top of the cliff,\nand looking off to sea, when the pupil caught his master's arm. \"What is\nthat down there in the water?\" he said, pointing to a little brown spot\npeering above the waves.\n\n\"I know not,\" answered the Saint; \"what seems it to be, brother?\"\n\n\"I have been watching it,\" said the other, \"and I think it grows. Look!\nit is even now higher than when first you looked; is it not so?\"\n\nAnd sure enough, Gudwall saw that ever so little at a time the brown\npatch was growing and spreading from right to left. Grain by grain the\nsand bar rose higher and higher till it thrust bravely above the\nblueness a solid wall extending for some distance through the water in\nfront of the cave. Against this new breakwater the surf roared and\nfoamed in terrible rage, but it could not pass, it could no longer swoop\ndown into the cavern as it had done before.\n\n\"The Lord has given us a defense,\" said Gudwall with a thankful heart.\nAnd then his eye caught sight of a great bluefish swimming back into\nthe deep sea. \"It is the fish who have built us the wall,\" he cried.\n\"Blessed be the fish who have this day helped us in our need.\"\n\nFor the fish had piled up a stout and lasting barrier between Saint\nGudwall and the angry sea, and thenceforth he could live in his cave\nsafely during both summer and winter.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BALLAD OF SAINT GILES AND THE DEER\n\n\n          ALL in the forest far away\n            Where no one ever came,\n          There dwelt a good man, old and gray,--\n            Saint Giles the hermit's name.\n\n          His forest home a rocky cave\n            Beneath an aspen tree;\n          And for his friend Saint Giles did have\n            A Deer, who wandered free.\n\n          A gentle red and mottled Deer\n            Who made her home close by,\n          Who at his call came without fear,\n            Forgetting to be shy.\n\n          Sure never all in lovely France\n            Was there a Deer so tame;\n          Ah, but to see her start and prance\n            When he would call her name!\n\n          She gave him milk, his simple fare,\n            And browsed upon the green,\n          Ah, such a gentle, loving pair\n            I wis was never seen.\n\n          And he was happy in his cell,\n            And joyous 'neath his trees,\n          Content with woodland beasts to dwell,\n            His only neighbors these.\n\n          The wood was dark, the wood was grim,\n            And never till one day\n          Had human voices troubled him,\n            Or world-folk passed that way.\n\n          But on a dewy springtime morn\n            When April climbed the hill,\n          There came the wind of silver horn,\n            Halloos and whistles shrill;\n\n          The galloping of horses' feet,\n            The bloody bay of hounds,\n          Broke through the forest silence sweet\n            And echoed deadly sounds.\n\n          Saint Giles sat in his lonely cell,\n            Whenas the rout drew nigh;\n          But at the noise his kind heart fell\n            And sorrow dimmed his eye.\n\n          He loved not men who hunt to kill,\n            Loved not the rich and grand,\n          For in those days the Pagans still\n            Held lordship in the land.\n\n          But scarcely had he reached the door\n            And seized his staff of oak,\n          When like a billow with a roar\n            The chase upon him broke.\n\n          With one last hope of dear escape,\n            Into the open space\n          Bounded a light and graceful shape,\n            The quarry of the chase.\n\n          All flecked with foam, all quivering\n            With weariness and fear,\n          Crouched at his feet the hunted thing,\n            His gentle friend, the Deer.\n\n          Behind her bayed the pack of hounds,\n            Their cruel teeth gleamed white,\n          Nearing with eager leaps and bounds;\n            He turned sick at the sight.\n\n          Saint Giles looked down upon the Deer,\n            Saint Giles looked up again,\n          He saw the danger drawing near,\n            The death, with all its pain.\n\n          He laid his hand upon her head,\n            The soft head of his friend,--\n          \"And shall I let thee die?\" he said,\n            \"And watch thy hapless end?\"\n\n          He stooped and gently murmured, \"Nay!\"\n            Stroking her mottled side,\n          He stepped before her where she lay;\n            \"They slay me first!\" he cried.\n\n          Her frightened eyes looked up at him,\n            Her little heart beat high,\n          She trembled sore in every limb,--\n            The bushes parted nigh.\n\n          \"Halloo! Halloo!\" the huntsmen cried\n            As through the hedge they burst;\n          An archer all in green espied\n            The crouching quarry first.\n\n          Swift as a thought his arrow flew,\n            Saint Giles threw out his arm,\n          Alack! the aim was all too true,\n            Saint Giles must bear the harm.\n\n          The arrow pierced too well, too well;\n            All in that mournful wood\n          Saint Giles upon the greensward fell,\n            And dyed it with his blood.\n\n          He fell, but falling laid his hand\n            Upon the trembling Deer,--\n          \"My life for hers, dost understand?\"\n            He cried so all could hear.\n\n          Now as upon the green he lay\n            All in a deathly swound,\n          The King dashed up with courtiers gay\n            And looked upon his wound;\n\n          The King rode up, and \"Ho!\" he cried,\n            \"Whom find we in our wood?\n          Who spares the deer with mottled hide?\n            Who sheds an old man's blood?\"\n\n          The King looked down with ruthful eye\n            When all the thing was told,\n          \"Alack!\" he cried, \"he must not die,\n            So kind a man and bold.\n\n          \"Bear me the Saint into his cave;\n            Who falls to save his friend\n          Deserves for leech his King to have;\n            I will his pallet tend.\"\n\n          They spared to him the sore-bought Deer;\n            And in that lowly cell\n          For many weary days and drear\n            The King came there to dwell.\n\n          The King, who was a godless man,\n            A pagan, heart and soul,\n          Played nurse until the wound began\n            To heal, and Giles was whole.\n\n          But in the little forest cave\n            The King learned many things\n          Known to the meanest Christian slave,\n            But secrets from the kings.\n\n          For good Saint Giles had won his heart\n            By his brave deed and bold,\n          And ere the great King did depart\n            His Christian faith he told.\n\n          And while the red Deer stood beside,\n            The King gave Giles his word\n          That e'er a Christian he would bide,\n            And keep what he had heard.\n\n          And so the monarch rode away\n            And left the two alone,\n          Saint Giles a happy man that day,\n            The good Deer still his own.\n\n          Safe from the eager hunting horde\n            The Saint would keep his friend,\n          Protected by the King's own word\n            Thenceforth unto the end.\n\n          For unmolested in his cell,\n            Careless of everything\n          Giles with his friendly Deer could dwell\n            Liege to a Christian King.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WOLF-MOTHER OF SAINT AILBE\n\n\nTHIS is the story of a poor little Irish baby whose cruel father and\nmother did not care anything about him. But because they could not sell\nhim nor give him away they tried to lose him. They wrapped him in a\npiece of cloth and took him up on the mountain side, and there they left\nhim lying all alone on a bush of heather.\n\nNow an old mother wolf was out taking her evening walk on the mountain\nafter tending her babies in the den all day. And just as she was passing\nthe heather bush she heard a faint, funny little cry. She pricked up her\npointed ears and said, \"What's that!\" And lo and behold, when she came\nto sniff out the mystery with her keen nose, it led her straight to the\nspot where the little pink baby lay, crying with cold and hunger.\n\nThe heart of the kind mother wolf was touched, for she thought of her\nown little ones at home, and how sad it would be to see them so helpless\nand lonely and forgotten. So she picked the baby up in her mouth\ncarefully and ran home with him to her den in the rocks at the foot of\nthe mountain. Here the little one, whose name was Ailbe, lived with the\nbaby wolves, sharing their breakfast and dinner and supper, playing and\nquarreling and growing up with them. The wolf-mother took good care of\nhim and saw that he had the best of everything, for she loved him dearly\nindeed. And Ailbe grew stronger and stronger, taller and taller,\nhandsomer and handsomer every day, living his happy life in the wild\nwoods of green Ireland.\n\nNow one day, a year or two after this, a hunter came riding over the\nmountain on his way home from the chase, and he happened to pass near\nthe cave where Ailbe and the wolves lived. As he was riding along under\nthe trees he saw a little white creature run across the path in front of\nhim. At first he thought it was a rabbit; but it was too big for a\nrabbit, and besides it did not hop. The hunter jumped down from his\nhorse and ran after the funny animal to find out what it was. His long\nlegs soon overtook it in a clump of bushes where it was hiding, and\nimagine the hunter's surprise when he found that it had neither fur nor\nhorns nor four feet nor a tail, but that it was a beautiful child who\ncould not stand upright, and whose little bare body ran on all-fours\nlike a baby wolf! It was little Ailbe, the wolf-mother's pet, who had\ngrown so fast that he was almost able to take care of himself. But he\nwas not quite able, the hunter thought; and he said to himself that he\nwould carry the poor little thing home to his kind wife, that she might\ntake care of him. So he caught Ailbe up in his arms, kicking and\nsquealing and biting like the wild little animal he was, and wrapped him\nin a corner of his great cloak. Then he jumped on his horse with a\nchirrup and galloped away out of the woods towards his village.\n\nBut Ailbe did not want to leave his forest home, the wolf-den, and his\nlittle wolf brothers. Especially he did not want to leave his dear\nfoster mother. So he screamed and struggled to get away from the big\nhunter, and he called to the wolves in their own language to come and\nhelp him. Then out of the forest came bounding the great mother wolf\nwith her four children, now grown to be nearly as big as herself. She\nchased after the fleeting horse and snapped at the loose end of the\nhuntsman's cloak, howling with grief and anger. But she could not catch\nthe thief, nor get back her adopted son, the little smooth-skinned\nfoundling. So after following them for miles, the five wolves gradually\ndropped further and further behind. And at last, as he stretched out his\nlittle arms to them over the hunter's velvet shoulder, Ailbe saw them\nstop in the road panting, with one last howl of farewell. They had given\nup the hopeless chase. And with their tails between their legs and their\nheads drooping low they slunk back to their lonely den where they would\nnever see their little boy playmate any more. It was a sad day for good\nwolf-mother.\n\nBut the hunter carried little Ailbe home with him on the horse's back.\nAnd he found a new mother there to receive him. Ailbe never knew who his\nfirst mother was, but she must have been a bad, cruel woman. His second\nmother was the kind wolf. And this one, the third, was a beautiful\nPrincess. For the hunter who had found the child was a Prince, and he\nlived in a grand castle by a lake near Tipperary, with hundreds of\nservants and horses and dogs and little pages for Ailbe to play with.\nAnd here he lived and was very happy; and here he learned all the things\nwhich in those days made a little boy grow up into a wise and great man.\nHe grew up so wise and great that he was made a Bishop and had a palace\nof his own in the town of Emly. People came to see him from far and\nnear, who made him presents, and asked him questions, and ate his\ndinners.\n\nBut though he had grown so great and famous Ailbe had never forgotten\nhis second mother, the good wolf, nor his four-footed brothers, in their\ncoats of gray fur. And sometimes when his visitors were stupid and\nstayed a long time, or when they asked too many questions, or when they\nmade him presents which he did not like, Ailbe longed to be back in the\nforest with the good beasts. For they had much more sense, though they\nhad never kissed the Blarney Stone, which makes one talk good Irish.\n\nA great many years afterwards there was one day a huge hunt in Emly. All\nthe lords for miles around were out chasing the wild beasts, and among\nthem was the Prince, Ailbe's foster-father. But the Bishop himself was\nnot with them. He did not see any sport in killing poor creatures. It\nwas almost night, and the people of Emly were out watching for the\nhunters to return. The Bishop was coming down the village street on his\nway from church, when the sound of horns came over the hills close by,\nand he knew the chase was nearing home.\n\nLouder and louder came the \"tantaratara!\" of the horns, and then he\ncould hear the gallopy thud of the horses' hoofs and the yelp of the\nhounds. But suddenly the Bishop's heart stood still. Among all the other\nnoises of the chase he heard a sound which made him think--think--think.\nIt was the long-drawn howl of a wolf, a sad howl of fear and weariness\nand pain. It spoke a language which he had almost forgotten. But hardly\nhad he time to think again and to remember, before down the village\nstreet came a great gaunt figure, flying in long leaps from the\nforemost dogs who were snapping at her heels. It was Ailbe's\nwolf-mother.\n\nHe recognized her as soon as he saw her green eyes and the patch of\nwhite on her right foreleg. And she recognized him, too,--how I cannot\nsay, for he had changed greatly since she last saw him, a naked little\nsunbrowned boy. But at any rate, in his fine robes of purple and linen\nand rich lace, with the mitre on his head and the crozier in his hand,\nthe wolf-mother knew her dear son. With a cry of joy she bounded up to\nhim and laid her head on his breast, as if she knew he would protect her\nfrom the growling dogs and the fierce-eyed hunters. And the good Bishop\nwas true to her. For he drew his beautiful velvet cloak about her tired,\npanting body, and laid his hand lovingly on her head. Then in the other\nhe held up his crook warningly to keep back the ferocious dogs.\n\n\"I will protect thee, old mother,\" he said tenderly. \"When I was little\nand young and feeble, thou didst nourish and cherish and protect me; and\nnow that thou art old and gray and weak, shall I not render the same\nlove and care to thee? None shall injure thee.\"\n\nThen the hunters came tearing up on their foaming horses and stopped\nshort to find what the matter was. Some of them were angry and wanted\neven now to kill the poor wolf, just as the dogs did who were prowling\nabout snarling with disappointment. But Ailbe would have none of it. He\nforbade them to touch the wolf. And he was so powerful and wise and holy\nthat they dared not disobey him, but had to be content with seeing their\nhunt spoiled and their prey taken out of their clutches.\n\nBut before the hunters and their dogs rode away, Saint Ailbe had\nsomething more to say to them. And he bade all the curious townsfolk who\nhad gathered about him and the wolf to listen also. He repeated the\npromise which he had made to the wolf, and warned every one thenceforth\nnot to hurt her or her children, either in the village, or in the woods,\nor on the mountain. And turning to her once more he said:--\n\n\"See, mother, you need not fear. They dare not hurt you now you have\nfound your son to protect you. Come every day with my brothers to my\ntable, and you and yours shall share my food, as once I so often shared\nyours.\"\n\nAnd so it was. Every day after that so long as she lived the old\nwolf-mother brought her four children to the Bishop's palace and howled\nat the gate for the porter to let them in. And every day he opened to\nthem, and the steward showed the five into the great dining hall where\nAilbe sat at the head of the table, with five places set for the rest of\nthe family. And there with her five dear children about her in a happy\ncircle the kind wolf-mother sat and ate the good things which the\nBishop's friends had sent him. But the child she loved best was none of\nthose in furry coats and fine whiskers who looked like her; it was the\nblue-eyed Saint at the top of the table in his robes of purple and\nwhite.\n\nBut Saint Ailbe would look about him at his mother and his brothers and\nwould laugh contentedly.\n\n\"What a handsome family we are!\" he would say. And it was true.\n\n\n\n\nSAINT RIGOBERT'S DINNER\n\n\nSAINT RIGOBERT was hungry. He had eaten nothing that morning, neither\nhad little Pierre, his serving lad, who trotted along before him on the\nroad to Rheims. They were going to visit Wibert, the Deputy-Governor of\nRheims, to pay him some money which the Bishop owed,--all the money\nwhich he had in the world. And that is why they had nothing left to buy\nthem a breakfast, and why little Pierre gazed into the bakers' shops so\nhungrily and licked his lips as they passed. Good Saint Rigobert did not\nsee the windows of buns and tarts and pasties as they went along, for\nhis eyes were bent upon the ground and he was singing hymns over to\nhimself under his breath. Still, he too was very faint.\n\nSaint Rigobert was poor. He was a good old Bishop; but the King of\nFrance did not love him, and had sent him away from the court and the\nbig, rich city to live among the poor folk in the country. Saint\nRigobert did not mind this very much, for he loved the pretty little\nvillage of Gernicour where he lived. He loved the people who dwelled\nthere, too; and especially he loved Pierre, who had come to his home to\nbe his little page and helper.\n\nThe people of the village meant to be kind and generous; but they were\nmostly stupid folk who saw only what was in front of their noses. And\nthey did not guess how very poor their dear Bishop was. They were poor,\ntoo, and had to be careful of their little bits of money. But they all\nhad vegetables and milk and eggs and butter, and if every one had helped\na little, as they ought,--for he was always doing kind things for\nthem,--Saint Rigobert would not have gone hungry so often.\n\nIt made the Bishop sorry to find them so careless, but he never\ncomplained. He would not tell them, nor beg them to help him, and often\neven little Pierre did not know how long he fasted. For he would give\nthe boy all the supper and keep none himself. But he was always cheery\nand contented. He always had a kind word for the people as he passed\nthem on the street. And when he went to the big town of Rheims near by\nhe never complained to the Governor there about what a poor, miserable\nparish he lived in, or how little the people of Gernicour did for their\nBishop. For he liked to believe that they did the best they could.\n\nAnd that is why, when the two came into Wibert's hall, Saint Rigobert\npaid the money to the Governor without a word of his hunger or his\nfaintness. And even when he saw the great table laid for dinner and the\nsmoking dishes brought in by a procession of serving men, he turned away\nresolutely and tried not to show how tempting the good things looked and\nsmelled. He gathered up the folds of his robe, and taking his Bishop's\nstaff in his hand, rose to go back to Gernicour and his dinnerless\nhouse. But as they were leaving the hall, Pierre trailing out very\nreluctantly with many a backward look, Wibert the governor called them\nback. Perhaps he had seen the longing in the eyes of little Pierre as\nthe great haunch of venison was set on the board. Perhaps he had noticed\nhow pale and hollow Saint Rigobert's cheeks were, and half guessed the\ncause. At all events he said kindly:--\n\n\"I pray thee, stay and dine with us, thou and the boy yonder. See, the\nmeat is ready, and there is room for many more at table.\"\n\nBut Saint Rigobert had a service to hold in the church at Gernicour, and\nknew they had barely time to reach home if they walked briskly. Besides,\nhe was too proud to accept charity, and for the sake of his people he\nfeared to let the Governor see how very hungry he was.\n\n\"Nay,\" he answered gently, \"I thank thee for thy courtesy, friend\nWibert. But we may not tarry. The time scants us for a dinner before the\nservice in the church at Gernicour, and we must hasten or we be late.\nCome, lad, we must be stirring anon.\"\n\nTears of disappointment were standing in Pierre's eyes, he wanted so\nmuch to stay and have some of that good dinner. But he never thought of\nquestioning his master's commands. The Governor pressed them to stay,\nbut Rigobert was firm, and passed on to the door, Pierre following\nsulkily behind. But just as they reached the door there was a commotion\noutside, and the sound of quacking and men's laughter. And there came in\na serving man bearing in his arms a great white goose, which was\nflapping his wings and cackling hoarsely in fright.\n\n\"Ho, what have we here?\" said the Governor crossly. \"Why do you let such\na commotion into my hall, you fellow?\"\n\n\"Please you, sir,\" answered the serving man as well as he could with the\ngoose struggling in his arms, \"this goose is a tribute from the widow\nRene, and she begs your Honor to accept him as a poor present.\"\n\n\"A poor present indeed,\" said the Governor testily. \"What do I want of\nthe creature? We have more fowls now than we know what to do with. I\nwish him not.\" Then an idea came into his head, and he turned to Saint\nRigobert. \"Why, reverend sir,\" he said laughing, \"since you will not\nstay to dine with me, I prithee take this fat fellow home with you, for\ndinner in Gernicour. 'T will be a good riddance for us, in sooth.\"\n\nSaint Rigobert hesitated. But seeing the look of eagerness in Pierre's\nface he concluded to accept the gift, which was a common one enough in\nthose days.\n\n\"Grammercy for your courtesy, Master Wibert,\" he answered. \"We take your\nbounty of the fine goose, since it seemeth that your tables have space\nfor little more. Now then, Pierre lad, take up thy prey. And look he\nbite thee not,\" he added as the boy made haste to seize the great\nstruggling bird.\n\nThe goose pecked and squawked and flapped horribly while Pierre was\ngetting his arms about him. But finally they were ready to start, Pierre\ngoing first with the goose who was nearly as big as himself, and the\nBishop following grasping his staff, his eyes bent upon the ground.\n\nPierre's heart was full of joy. He chuckled and laughed and could hardly\nwait till they should reach home, for thinking of the fine dinner at the\nend of the road. But Saint Rigobert had already forgotten the goose, he\nhad so many other things to think about. That is the way he had taught\nhimself to forget how hungry he was--he just thought about something\nelse. But all on a sudden Rigobert was startled by a great cackle and a\nscream in front of him down the road. He looked up just in time to see a\nbig white thing sailing away into the sky, and Pierre hopping up and\ndown in the road screaming and crying.\n\nThe Bishop overtook the little fellow quickly. \"Lad, lad, hast thou lost\nthy goose?\" he asked gently.\n\n\"Oh Father,\" sobbed the boy, \"our nice dinner! Your dinner, master! The\nwicked goose has flown away. Oh, what a careless boy I am to let him\n'scape me so!\" And he sat down on a stone and cried as if his heart\nwould break.\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" the good Bishop said, patting him on the head soothingly,\n\"perhaps the poor goose did not want to be roasted, Pierre. Can you\nblame him for seeking his liberty instead? I find no fault with him; but\nI am sorry for thy dinner, lad. We must try to get something else. Cheer\nup, Pierre, let the white goose go. All will yet be well, lad.\"\n\nHe made Pierre get up, still crying bitterly, and on they trudged again\nalong the dusty road. But this time there was no dinner for them to\nlook forward to, and the way seemed very long. Pierre dragged his feet\nheavily, and it seemed as if he could not go another step with that\nemptiness in his stomach and the ache in his head. But again Saint\nRigobert began to hum his hymns softly under his breath, keeping time to\nthe beat of his aged feet on the dusty road. The loss of his dinner\nseemed to trouble him little. Perhaps he was secretly glad that the poor\ngoose had escaped; for he was very tender-hearted and loved not to have\ncreatures killed, even for food.\n\nThey had gone quite a little distance, and Rigobert began to sing louder\nand louder as they neared his church. When suddenly there came a strange\nsound in the air over his head. And then with a great fluttering a big\nwhite goose came circling down right before Saint Rigobert's feet. The\ngood Saint stopped short in surprise, and Pierre, turning about, could\nhardly believe his eyes. But sure enough, there was the very same goose,\nlooking up into Saint Rigobert's face and cackling as if trying to tell\nhim something.\n\n\"I didn't mean to run away,\" he seemed to say. \"I didn't know you were\nhungry, holy man, and that I was taking away your dinner. Sing on and I\nwill follow you home.\"\n\nPierre turned and ran back to the goose and would have seized him by the\nneck so he could not get away again. But Saint Rigobert held up his\nfinger warningly, and the boy stood still.\n\n\"Do not touch him, Pierre,\" said the Bishop earnestly. \"I do not think\nhe will run away. Let us see.\"\n\nAnd sure enough, when they started on once more, Saint Rigobert still\nsinging softly, Pierre, who kept glancing back, saw the goose waddling\nslowly at his master's heels. So the queer little procession came into\nGernicour; and every one stopped along the streets with open mouths,\nwondering to see them pass. At last they reached the Bishop's house. And\nthere Rigobert ceased his singing, and turning to the goose stroked his\nfeathers gently and said:--\n\n\"Good friend, thou hast been faithful. Thou shalt be rewarded. Aye,\nruffle up thy feathers, good goose, for they shall never be plucked\nfrom thee, nor shalt thou be cooked for food. Thou art my friend from\nto-day. No pen shall hold thee, but thou shalt follow me as thou wilt.\"\n\nAnd the Saint kept his promise. For after that the goose lived with him\nin happiness and peace. They would take long walks together in the\nfields about Gernicour. They made visits to the sick and the sorrowful.\nIndeed, wherever Saint Rigobert went the goose followed close at his\nheels like a dog. Even when Rigobert went again to see the Governor of\nRheims, the goose waddled all the way there and back along the crooked\nroad over part of which he had gone that first time in little Pierre's\narms. And how the Governor did laugh as he stood in his door and watched\nthe strange pair disappear down the road.\n\n\"He could not have been very hungry after all,\" the Governor thought,\n\"or I should never have seen that goose again.\" Which shows how little\neven a Governor knows about some things.\n\nMore than this, whenever Rigobert went to hold service in his little\nchurch the goose escorted him there also. But he knew better than to go\ninside. He would wait by the porch, preening his feathers in the\nsunshine and snapping bugs in the grass of the churchyard until his dear\nmaster came out. And then he would escort him back home again. He was a\nvery well-mannered goose.\n\nBut dear me! All this time I have left poor little Pierre standing with\na quivering chin outside the Bishop's door, hopeless of a dinner. But it\nall came right, just as the Bishop had said it would. I must tell you\nabout that. For when Rigobert returned from church that same day feeling\nvery faint and hungry indeed, after the long walk and the excitement of\nthe goose-hap, Pierre came running out to meet him with a smiling face.\n\n\"Oh Father, Father!\" he cried. \"We are to have a dinner, after all. Come\nquick, I am so hungry I cannot wait! The village folk have heard about\nthe pious goose who came back to be your dinner, and how you would not\neat him. And so they have sent us a basket of good things instead. And\nthey promise that never again so long as they have anything to eat\nthemselves shall we be hungry any more. Oh Father! I am so glad we did\nnot eat the goose.\"\n\nAnd good Saint Rigobert laid his hand on Pierre's head and said, \"Dear\nlad, you will never be sorry for showing kindness to a friendly bird or\nbeast.\" Then the goose came quacking up to them and they all three went\ninto the house together to eat their good, good dinner.\n\n\n\n\nSAINT FRANCIS OF ASSISI\n\n\nBAREFOOTED in the snow, bareheaded in the rain, Saint Francis wandered\nup and down the world smiling for the great love that was in his heart.\n\nAnd because it grew from love the smile of Saint Francis was a wonderful\nthing. It opened the hearts of men and coaxed the secrets of their\nthoughts. It led human folk whithersoever Saint Francis willed. It drew\nthe beasts to his side and the birds to nestle in his bosom. It was like\na magic charm.\n\nGreat princes knew his smile and they obeyed its command to be generous\nand good. The sick and sorrowful knew his smile. It meant healing and\ncomfort. Then they rose and blessed God in the name of Saint Francis.\nThe wretched beggars in the streets of Assisi knew it. To them the smile\nof \"the Lord's own beggar\" meant help and sympathy. Like them he was\npoor and homeless, often ill and hungry. They wondered that he could\nsmile. But he said, \"It does not become a servant of God to have an air\nof melancholy and a face full of trouble.\" So they also tried to smile,\npoor fellows. But how different it was!\n\nThe little lambs to whom he gave his special protection and care knew\nthe smile of Saint Francis. Once he met two woolly lambkins who were\nbeing carried to market. He never had any money, but taking off his\ncloak, which was all he had to part with, he gave it to buy their lives.\nAnd he carried the lambs home in his bosom.\n\nThe wilder beasts beyond the mountains, the fierce wolves and shy foxes\nof Syria and Spain whom he met in his wanderings knew Saint Francis.\nHere was a brother who was not afraid of them and whom they could trust\nin return, a brother who understood and sympathized. The birds in the\ntrees knew also, and his coming was the signal of peace. Then they sang\nwith Francis, but he was the sweetest singer of them all.\n\nBesides these living things the green fields of Italy, the trees, the\nmeadows, the brooks, the flowers all knew the smile of Saint Francis. It\nmeant to them many things which only a poet can tell. But Francis\nunderstood, for he was a poet.\n\nUpon all alike his face of love beamed tenderly. For Saint Francis of\nAssisi was a little brother of the whole great world and of all created\nthings. Not only did his heart warm to Brother Sheep and Sister Bees, to\nhis Brother Fish and his little Sisters the Doves, but he called the Sun\nand Wind his brothers and the Moon and Water his sisters. Of all the\nsaints about whom the legends tell, Francis was the gentlest and most\nloving. And if\n\n          \"He prayeth best who loveth best\n             All things both great and small,\"\n\nthe prayers of Saint Francis must have been very dear to Him who \"made\nand loveth all.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere was none so poor as Francis. Not a penny did he have, not a penny\nwould he touch. Let them be given to those who could not smile, he said.\nHis food he begged from door to door, broken crusts for a single poor\nmeal; more he would not take. His sleeping place was the floor or the\nhaymow, the ruined church, whatever lodging chance gave him. Oftenest\nhe slept upon the bare ground with a stone for his pillow. He wanted to\nbe poor because Christ was poor, and he was trying to live like his\nMaster.\n\nIn his coarse brown gown, tied about the waist with a rope, without hat\nor shoes he wandered singing, smiling. The love which beamed from him\nlike radiance from a star shone back from every pair of eyes which\nlooked into his own. For all the world loved Francis in the time of the\nCrusades. And even to-day, seven hundred years since that dear beggar\npassed cheerily up and down the rough Italian roads,--even to-day there\nare many who love him like a lost elder brother.\n\nSaint Francis preached to all lessons of charity and peace. His were\nsimple words, for he had not the wisdom of many books. But he knew the\nbook of the human heart from cover to cover. His words were like fire,\nthey warmed and wakened. No one could resist the entreaty and the love\nthat was in them. So thousands joined the Society of Little Brothers of\nwhich he was the founder, and became his helpers in works of charity and\nholiness.\n\nHis church was out of doors in the beautiful world that he loved, in\nmountain, field, or forest, wherever he happened to be wandering.\nSometimes he preached by the candle-light of stars. Often the\ncloistering trees along the roadside made his chapel, and the blue sky\nwas the only roof between him and heaven. Often his choir was of the\nbrother birds in the branches and his congregation a group of brother\nbeasts. For he preached to them also who, though they spoke a different\nlanguage, were yet children of his Father. And in his little talks to\nthem he always showed the courtesy which one brother owes another.\n\nOnce, on returning from a journey beyond the sea, he was traveling\nthrough the Venetian country, when he heard a great congregation of\nbirds singing among the bushes. And he said to his companion, \"Our\nsisters, the birds, are praising their Maker. Let us then go into their\nmidst and sing.\" So they did this, and the birds did not fly away but\ncontinued to sing so loudly that the brothers could not hear each other.\nThen Saint Francis turned to the birds and said politely, \"Sisters,\ncease your song until we have rendered our bounden praise to God.\" So\nthe birds were still until the brothers had finished their psalm. But\nafter that when it was again their turn the birds went on with their\nsong.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt another time when he was preaching in the town of Alvia among the\nhills, the swallows flew about and twittered so loudly that the people\ncould not hear Saint Francis' voice. The birds did not mean to be rude,\nhowever. So he turned to the swallows and saluted them courteously. \"My\nsisters,\" he said, \"it is now time that I should speak. Since you have\nhad your say, listen now in your turn to the word of God and be silent\ntill the sermon is finished.\" And again the birds obeyed the smile and\nthe voice of him who loved them. Though whether they understood the\ngrown-up sermon that followed, I cannot tell.\n\nBut this is the little sermon which he made one day for a congregation\nof birds who sat around him in the bushes listening.\n\n\"Brother Birds, greatly are ye bound to praise the Creator who clotheth\nyou with feathers and giveth you wings to fly with and a purer air to\nbreathe; and who careth for you who have so little care for yourselves.\"\n\nIt was not a long sermon, so the birds could not have grown tired or\nsleepy, and I am sure they understood every word. So after he had given\nthem his blessing he let them go, and they went singing as he had bidden\nthem.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSaint Francis preached the lessons of peace; he would not have cruelty\nor bloodshed among his human friends. And he also taught his beasts to\nbe kind. He loved best the gentle lambs, one of which was almost always\nwith him, and in his sermons he would point to them to show men what\ntheir lives should be. But there is a story told of the lesson he taught\na wolf that shows what power the Saint had over the fiercer animals.\nThere are many stories of wolves whom the saints made tame. But this\nwolf of Saint Francis was the most terrible of them all.\n\nThis huge and savage wolf had been causing great horror to the people\nof Gubbio. For in the night he not only stole sheep and cows from the\nfarms, but he came and carried off men also for his dinner. So that\npeople were afraid to go out of the town for fear of being gobbled up.\n\nNow Saint Francis came. And he said, \"I will go out and seek this wolf.\"\nBut the townsfolk begged him not to go, for the good man was dear to\nthem and they feared never to see him again. However, he was resolved\nand went forth from the gate.\n\nHe had gone but a little way when out rushed the wolf to meet him, with\nhis mouth wide open, roaring horribly. Then Saint Francis made the sign\nof the cross and said gently:--\n\n\"Come hither, Brother Wolf. I command thee in Christ's behalf that thou\ndo no evil to me nor to any one.\" And wonderful to say! The wolf grew\ntame and came like a lamb to lie at Saint Francis' feet.\n\nThen Francis went on to rebuke him, saying that he deserved to be hung\nfor his many sins, being a robber and a wicked murderer of men and\nbeasts.\n\n\"But I wish, Brother Wolf,\" he said, \"to make peace between thee and\nmen; therefore vex them no more and they will pardon thee all thy past\noffenses, and neither dogs nor men will chase thee any more.\"\n\nAt this the wolf wagged his tail and bowed his head to show he\nunderstood. And putting his right paw in the hand of Saint Francis he\npromised never again to steal nor slay. Then like a gentle dog he\nfollowed the holy man to the market-place of the town, where great\ncrowds of people had gathered to see what Saint Francis would do with\nthe great beast, their enemy, for they thought he was to be punished.\nBut Francis rose and said to them:--\n\n\"Hearken, dear brethren: Brother Wolf who is here before you has\npromised me that he will make peace with you and will never injure you\nin any way, if ye promise to give him day by day what is needful for his\ndinner. And I will be surety for him.\" Thereupon with a great shout all\nthe people promised to give him his daily food. Again the wolf wagged\nhis tail, flapped his long ears, bowed his head, and gave his paw to\nSaint Francis to show that he would keep his word. All the people saw\nhim do this. And then there were shouts of wonder you may be sure, and\ngreat rejoicing because Saint Francis had saved them from this cruel\nbeast, and had made a gentle friend of their dreaded enemy.\n\nSo after this the wolf lived two years at Gubbio and went about from\ndoor to door humbly begging his food like Saint Francis himself. He\nnever harmed any one, not even the little children who teased and pulled\nhim about. But all the people loved him and gave him what he liked to\neat; and not even a dog would bark at his heels or growl at the friend\nof Saint Francis. So he lived to a good old age. And when after two\nyears Brother Wolf died because he was so old, the citizens were very\nsorrowful. For not only did they miss the soft pat-pat of his steps\npassing through the city, but they grieved for the sorrow of Saint\nFrancis in losing a kindly friend,--Saint Francis of whose saintliness\nand power the humble beast had been a daily reminder.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFrancis could not bear to see a little brother in trouble or pain, and\nthis the beasts knew very well. He would not willingly tread upon an\ninsect, but would step aside and gently bid the Brother Worm depart in\npeace. The fish which a fisherman gave him he restored to the water,\nwhere it played about his boat and would not leave him till he bade it\ngo.\n\nOnce again in the village of Gubbio a live baby hare was brought him as\na present, for his breakfast. But when Francis saw the frightened look\nof the little creature held in the arms of one of the brothers, his\nheart ached with sympathy.\n\n\"Little Brother Leveret, come to me,\" he said. \"Why hast thou let\nthyself be taken?\" And the little fellow as if understanding the\ninvitation jumped out of the friar's arms and ran to Francis, hiding in\nthe folds of his gown. But when Francis took it out and set it free,\nvery politely giving it permission to depart instead of staying to make\na breakfast, it would not go. Again and again it returned nestling to\nits new-found friend, as if guessing that here at least it would be safe\nforever. But at last tenderly Saint Francis sent the good brother away\nwith it into the wood, where it was safe once more among its little\nbob-tailed brothers and sisters.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNow after a life spent like Christ's in works of poverty, charity, and\nlove, Saint Francis came at last to have one spot in the world which he\ncould call his own. It was neither a church nor a convent, a cottage nor\neven a cell. It was only a bare and lonely mountain top where wild\nbeasts lived and wild birds had a home. This retreat in the wilderness\nwas the gift which Orlando, a rich nobleman, chose to make Saint\nFrancis. And it was a precious gift indeed, sorely needed by the Lord's\nweary beggar. For he was worn with wandering; he was ill and weak, and\nhis gentle eyes were growing dim so that he could not go along the\nwinding ways. But he was happy still.\n\n[Illustration: SAINT FRANCIS OF ASSISI]\n\nSo one warm September day he went with some of his chosen brethren to\ntake possession of their new home. They left the villages, the farms,\nand at last even the scattered shepherds' huts far below and behind\nthem, and came into the quiet of the Italian hills. They climbed and\nclimbed over the rocks and along the ravines, till they came in sight of\nthe bald summit where Francis was to dwell. And here in happy weariness\nhe paused to rest under an oak-tree and look about upon the beautiful\nscene.\n\nBut suddenly the air was filled with music, a chorus of trills and\nquavers and carols of the wildest joy. Then the air grew dark with\nwhirring wings. The birds of the mountain were coming from everywhere to\nwelcome home their brother. They flew to him by hundreds, perching on\nhis head and shoulders; and when every other spot was covered they\ntwittered into the hood of his brown mantle. The brothers stood about,\nwondering greatly, although they had seen Saint Francis in some such\nplight before. But the peasant who led the ass which had brought Saint\nFrancis so far stood like one turned to stone, unable to believe his\neyes. Here was a miracle the like of which he had never dreamed.\n\nBut Saint Francis was filled with gladness. \"Dearest brethren,\" he said,\n\"I think it must be pleasant to our Lord that we should dwell in this\nsolitary place, since our brothers and sisters the birds are so glad of\nour coming.\"\n\nAnd indeed, how could they help being glad of his coming, the dear, kind\nSaint? And how they hovered around the shelter of branches which the\nbrethren built for him under a beech-tree on the very mountain top! One\ncan picture them at morning, noon, and night joining in his songs of\npraise, or keeping polite silence while the holy man talked with God.\n\nMany wonderful things happened upon the Monte Alverno while Saint\nFrancis dwelt there. But none were more wonderful than the great love of\nFrancis himself; his love which was so big and so wide that it wrapped\nthe whole round world, binding all creatures more closely in a common\nbrotherhood.\n\nSo that every man and every bird and every beast that lives ought to\nlove the name of that dear Saint, their childlike, simple, happy little\nbrother, Saint Francis of Assisi.\n\n\n                HERE\n          THE BOOK OF SAINTS\n          & FRIENDLY BEASTS\n                ENDS\n\n\n\n\nA CALENDAR\n\n          Here follow the Days of\n          the Saints and their\n          Beasts\n\n\n          Jan. 4. Saint Rigobert.\n\n          Jan. 13. Saint Kentigern.\n\n          Jan. 14. Saint Felix.\n\n          Jan. 18. Saint Prisca.\n\n          Jan. 19. Saint Launomar.\n\n          Feb. 1. Saint Bridget.\n\n          Feb. 3. {Saint Werburgh\n                  {Saint Blaise.\n\n          Feb. 9. Saint Athracta.\n\n          Feb. 14. Saint Berach.\n\n          March 5. Saint Gerasimus.\n\n          March 20. Saint Cuthbert.\n\n          April 14. Saint Fronto.\n\n          May 10. Saint Comgall.\n\n          June 6. Saint Gudwall.\n\n          June 17. Saint Herve.\n\n          August 1. Saint Keneth.\n\n          Sept. 1. Saint Giles.\n\n          Sept. 12. Saint Ailbe.\n\n          Oct. 4. Saint Francis.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n          =The Riverside Press=\n          ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED\n          BY H.O. HOUGHTON & CO.\n          CAMBRIDGE, MASS.\n          U. S. A.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTranscriber's Notes:\n\nObvious punctuation errors repaired.\n\nPage 60-61, word split across pages had a dittograph. Extra \"pro\" was\nremoved (she heard a prodigious) Original read: (she heard a pro-{page\nbreak}prodigious)\n\nPage 62, a paragraph break was inserted in the text before the line\nbeginning: \"A fox must have stolen it,\" he said guiltily.","title":"The Book of Saints and Friendly Beasts","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":40757}