Myth-Folklore Unit: Saints and Animals

Overview. There are literally thousands of Christian saints, and the legends of the saints are an essential part of the Christian storytelling tradition. This unit, based on Abbie Farwell Brown's Book of Saints and Friendly Beasts, focuses on legends of the saints in which animals play a central role. You might be familiar with Saint Francis of Assisi, but the other stories you will read here are probably new to you. There is Kentigern, the patron saint of Glasgow, who was able to bring a beloved bird back to life, and Saint Ailbe (a.k.a. Saint Elvis), who was raised by wolves. Some of the stories are told in the form of ballads, like the Ballad of Saint Anthracta, a sort of fairytale princess who prefers instead to run with the wild things, or the Ballad of Saint Felix, whose life was saved by a kindly spider. These saints come from different time periods and different countries, but they all share a spiritual, even supernatural, connection to the animal kingdom.

Language. This is a modern retelling of the lives of the saints, so the language should give you any problems. Three of the stories are told as poetry, but if you read the poems out loud, you should not find them too difficult. In fact, you might even be inspired to write a story in verse yourself!

Navigation. You will find the table of contents below, and you can also use this link to see the story posts displayed on two pages total: Saints and Animals. Click "Older Posts" at the bottom of that page to see the second page.

Notes. This unit does not have notes on every page yet, so please feel free to ask questions if something is not clear — and your questions will help me write better notes, too! You can ask your question by leaving a comment, just like at any other blog. You can also rate each page with the star ratings checkbox at the bottom of each post. Your feedback and questions are much appreciated!

Connecting Units. If you are interested in animal tales with a religious theme, I strongly recommend Babbitt's Jataka Tales coming up in the India module.

Read More. In this unit, you read only part of the book. If you want to read the whole book, you can find it online in various formats: Book of Saints and Friendly Beasts. For a quick glance at the table of contents, see the online book presented at the Baldwin Project.

Additional Resources. You can also find abundant information about the saints at the Wikipedia Saints Portal.

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READING A:

1. Saint Kentigern and the Robin
2. Saint Kentigern and the Robin (cont.)
3. Saint Blaise and His Beasts
4. Saint Blaise and His Beasts (cont.)
5. Saint Comgall and the Mice
6. Saint Comgall and the Mice (cont.)
7. The Wonders of Saint Berach
8. The Wonders of Saint Berach (cont.)

READING B

1. The Fish Who Helped Saint Gudwall
2. The Wolf-Mother of Saint Ailbe
3. The Wolf-Mother of Saint Ailbe (cont.)
4. The Ballad of Saint Athracta's Stags
5. The Ballad of Saint Felix
6. The Ballad of Saint Giles and the Deer
7. Saint Francis of Assisi
8. Saint Francis of Assisi (cont.)
9. Saint Francis of Assisi (end)

(Saint Francis, 13th-century fresco)

Saints: Saint Kentigern and the Robin

This story is part of the Saints and Animals unit. Story source: The Book of Saints and Friendly Beasts by Abbie Farwell Brown (1900).

(Saint Kentigern / Mungo)

Saint Kentigern and the Robin

ONCE upon a time Saint Servan kept a school near Glasgow in Scotland, and many boys, big and little, came there to study. Now of all these boys there was one who surpassed the rest in everything that makes a good scholar. Kentigern was one of the smallest boys in the school, and yet he stood at the head of all his classes. It was Kentigern who found the answer to the knottiest problem, and who read off the hardest passages of Latin when no one else was able to make sense of them. It was Kentigern who learned his lessons first and who recited them best. It was Kentigern who sang the loudest and was never off the pitch, and good Saint Servan loved him best of all his pupils.

For all these reasons, and for several more like them, the other boys were jealous of Kentigern and did everything they could to trouble him and make him unhappy. They tried to make him fail in his lessons by talking and laughing when it was his turn to recite. But this was a useless trick; his answers were always ready, so they had to give this up.

They teased him and called him names, trying to make him lose his temper so that he would be punished. But he was too good-natured to be cross with them, so they had to give this up. They tried to coax him into mischief and lead him do something which would make Saint Servan angry with him. But Kentigern loved his master too well to do anything to trouble him. So the boys had finally to give this up also.

There was only one way to bring Kentigern into disgrace. They must plan a trap, and make him fall into it For weeks they racked their brains trying to think what they should do; but at last they thought they had hit upon a plan.

It was all concerned with a fire. In those days there were no matches with which to strike a light in a second. Matches had not been invented in the year 600, nor indeed for many centuries afterwards. Their way of making a fire was by rubbing two dry sticks together until they grew hot and a spark fell out upon the wood which was to be kindled. And this was a very difficult and tiresome thing to do, especially in the winter when there were few dry sticks to be found. So the fire which was kept burning night and day in the great fireplace of Saint Servan's school was tended carefully, and it would be a very serious thing to let this go out. For how would the breakfast be cooked, and the rooms warmed, and the candles lighted for the morning service in the chapel if there were no fire on the great hearth?

So for a week at a time the boys had to take turns in tending the fire, and the boy whose turn it was had to rise at midnight and put on wood enough to keep the blaze bright until morning. And oh! how angry Saint Servan would be with any boy who was so careless as to let the fire go out in the night.

Now it was Kentigern's week to tend the fire, and for several days he did tend it faithfully. But the boys were waiting for a chance to play their mean trick. On the fourth night Kentigern rose as the chapel clock boomed "twelve!" and went down to the kitchen to give the hungry fire its midnight lunch of snappy wood. But as soon as he stepped into the great empty hall he knew something was wrong. Br-r-r! The air was damp and chilly, and there was no crimson glow on the hearthstones. Kentigern shivered and ran to the fireplace, peering into the black cavern. There was nothing but a heap of white ashes and half-burnt wood!

Then Kentigern's heart sank, for he knew he should be blamed for carelessness, although he suspected that some one had thrown water on the fire and put it out. And he guessed that it was the other boys who had done this spiteful thing to bring him into trouble. He did not know what to do. But a sudden courage came to him. He took up a log of wood from the corner and laid it on the heap of ashes. Then bending down he blew gently on the pile. And oh, wonderful to say! It was as if he had scratched a dozen cards of matches and had touched them to a pile of paper. Hardly had his breath stirred the ashes and made the moss shiver on the great log, when the whole fireplace was filled with dancing flames, and the wood began to snap and crack in the best kind of a blaze. Kentigern laughed softly to himself as he stole back to bed, and said never a word to the sleeping boys who had tried to make mischief for him.

When they woke in the morning they began to chuckle and nudge one another, expecting every moment to see Saint Servan come frowning in search of the careless Kentigern. And every boy was ready to declare that the fire was burning brightly when he went to bed, and that Kentigern had forgotten to go down and tend it at midnight. But they were prevented from telling this falsehood. For the bell rang as usual for breakfast, and down they all went to find a beautiful fire burning on the hearth, and Kentigern going with his taper to light the chapel candelabra. They did not know how it had happened till long, long afterwards when Kentigern had made many other wonders come to pass, and when he was known far and wide as a Saint even wiser than Servan his master.

Next: Saint Kentigern and the Robin (cont.)

(1000 words)

Saints: Saint Kentigern and the Robin (cont.)

This story is part of the Saints and Animals unit. Story source: The Book of Saints and Friendly Beasts by Abbie Farwell Brown (1900).

Saint Kentigern and the Robin (cont.)

But meanwhile the boys hated him more than ever when they saw how much better Saint Servan loved him every day. And once more they planned to bring him into disgrace. But this time it was an even more cruel thing which they meant to do. For if they succeeded it would not only cause Kentigern to be punished and make Saint Servan unhappy, but it would cost the life of an innocent little creature who never had done any harm to a single one of them.

Saint Servan was a kind-hearted old man, and he had a Robin Redbreast of which he was very fond — a black-eyed fellow who ate his breakfast out of the Saint's hand. And when the master chanted the Psalms the little chorister would perch on Servan's shoulder and flap his wings, twittering as if he were trying to join in the songs of praise.

(red-breasted robin)

Now one morning when the coast was clear, the boys killed the little Redbreast and pulled off his head. And then the biggest boy of them all took the dead bird in his hand, and followed by all the rest ran screaming to Saint Servan himself, pretending to feel very sorry.

"Oh Father!" cried the Big Boy; "just see what the wicked Kentigern has done! Look at your Robin whom Kentigern has killed!"

Then they all began to cry out against Kentigern, and some even declared that they had seen him do the wicked deed, which was a horrid story, and their tongues must have smarted well as they spoke it.

Of course Saint Servan was very sad and angry. He tenderly took the little limp body in his hand and went to seek Kentigern, the other boys tiptoeing after him to see the fun. And by and by they came upon him in a window bending over a big book which he was studying. Saint Servan strode up to him and laid a heavy hand upon his shoulder.

"Look at this, boy," he cried with a sad voice, "look at this cruel deed, and tell me what shall be done to punish the slayer? Did I not love the Robin, even as I loved you, ungrateful boy!"

Kentigern turned quite pale with surprise and sorrow, and the tears came into his eyes. "Oh, the dear little bird," he said. "Did I not love him too? Who has killed him, Father?"

"You did, you did; we saw you!" cried all the boys in a chorus.

Kentigern turned and looked at them in astonishment. He did not say a word, but his checks grew red and his eyes flashed. This was more than even his patience could stand.

"Well, what have you to say for yourself?" queried Saint Servan sternly.

Kentigern turned to him sadly. "Oh Father!" he said; "how can you believe that I would do such a cruel thing, to hurt the bird and to make you sad? I did not do it, Father."

"Can you prove it?" asked Saint Servan still more sternly, for he thought the boy was telling a falsehood to hide his guilt.

"Give me the Robin, Father," said Kentigern, holding out his hand. "I will prove that it was not this hand which cowardly used so small a thing as a tiny bird."

Then holding the limp body in one hand and the downy head in the other, he stood before them all, looking up towards heaven, and made his little prayer. "O Father in heaven," he said, "prove to my dear Father on earth that I have not done this cruel thing. If I am innocent, give me power to undo the wrong and restore life to the little singer who loved to praise Thee with his sweet voice."

Then gently he set the head in place where it should be and, as his tears fell upon the Robin's neck, it seemed to grow again to the body. The feathers ruffled and the limp wings fluttered feebly; the black eyes opened, and out of the bill came a little chirp. Then the Robin hopped out of Kentigern's hands and across the floor to Saint Servan's feet, and flew up on his master's shoulder. There he sat and sang such a carol of joy as made the great hall ring again.

But all the guilty boys put their fingers in their ears and turned pale, as if they understood what he was saying, and as if it told the truth about their jealousy and their cruelty and their falsehood.

So Saint Servan learned that Kentigern was innocent and saw how it had all happened. The real culprits were severely punished. But Kentigern became even dearer than before to his master, who helped him in every way to become the great and famous Saint he afterwards was. And the Robin was another fond and faithful friend. For the bird seemed never to forget that Kentigern had restored his life, and always sang his sweetest song for the boy.

You may be sure that after this the boys gave up trying to get the better of Kentigern. They had learned that lesson, and thenceforth they were more kind and respectful to a boy over whom some kind Power seemed to keep special charge.

Next: Saint Blaise and His Beasts

(Glasgow Coat of Arms)

(900 words)

Saints: Saint Blaise and His Beasts

This story is part of the Saints and Animals unit. Story source: The Book of Saints and Friendly Beasts by Abbie Farwell Brown (1900).

(Saint Blaise icon)

Saint Blaise and His Beasts

THIS is the story of a Saint who loved all animals and whom the animals therefore loved in return.

Saint Blaise was the son of wealthy people in Sebaste, a town of Armenia near Turkey, in the days when it was fashionable to be a heathen. He was not like the other boys, his playmates, for he was a Christian, full of sympathy for everything that lived. More than all things he longed to learn how to help the creatures that he loved — men and women, the children, the dumb beasts, and everything that suffered and was sick. So he went to school and studied medicine. and by and by he grew up to be a wise man with a big, tender heart. Every one loved him, for he did great good among the people of his village, tending their children and healing their cattle and household pets.

Nor did he neglect even the wild beasts. For Saint Blaise loved to go away into the woods and fields where he could learn about the untamed creatures and teach them to be his friends. The birds and beasts and fishes grew to love him because he never hurt them, but talked to them kindly and healed them when they were sick or wounded. The timid creatures were brave in his presence, and the fierce ones grew tame and gentle at the sound of his voice. The little birds brought him food, and the four-footed beasts ran errands and were his messengers. The legends say that they used to visit him in his forest home, which was a cave on Mount Argus near the city of Sebaste. Every morning they came to see how their master was faring, to receive his blessing and lick his hands in gratitude. If they found the Saint at his prayers they never disturbed him, but waited in a patient, wistful group at the door of his cave until he rose from his knees.

One day a poor woman came to him in great distress because a wolf had carried away her pig. Saint Blaise was sorry to hear that one of his friends had done so wicked a thing. He bade the woman go home, and said he would see what could be done. He called the Wolf up to him and shook his head gravely at the culprit.

"You bad Wolf!" he said. "Don't you know that the Pig was a friend of mine, too? He is not handsome, but he is nice and plump. and he is the only pig of a poor, lone woman. How could you be so selfish? Go straight home and get my friend Pig, and drive him down to the woman's house."

Then the Wolf went sheepishly away and did what the good Saint had told him to do, for the Pig had not yet been made into pork. And when the poor woman saw the Pig run grunting into her yard, chased by the repentant Wolf, she fell upon his fat neck and wept tears of joy. Then the Wolf went back to Saint Blaise, who told him he was a good wolf, and gave him a dish of fresh milk to cool his throat.

Saint Blaise was chosen Bishop by the Christians who loved him for his piety and his charity. And the wood-beasts were glad of this honor done to their dear master. But the poor creatures did not know how dangerous it was to be a Christian in those days, and especially to be a Bishop who had much power over the people. For the heathen were jealous of him, and feared that he would make all the people Christians too, when they saw the wonderful cures which his medicines made. But they could not find him, for he was living in his forest cave.

Next: Saint Blaise and His Beasts (cont.)

(700 words)

Saints: Saint Blaise and His Beasts (cont.)

This story is part of the Saints and Animals unit. Story source: The Book of Saints and Friendly Beasts by Abbie Farwell Brown (1900).

Saint Blaise and His Beasts (cont.)

This was 316 years after Christ's birth, and the cruel Emperor Licinius was causing many Christians to be killed. Agricola was the governor whom Licinius had appointed in Sebaste, and he sent his soldiers into the mountains to get some wild beasts for the games in the arena, where the Christians were to be put to death. But they could not find any beasts at all in the mountains, or in the fields, or valleys, or woods. They thought this very strange. But by and by they came by accident to the cave where Saint Blaise lived.

And there were the animals, all the fierce beasts whom they feared; lions, tigers, leopards, bears, and wolves, making their morning call upon Saint Blaise and sitting quietly about. In the midst was Blaise himself, praying so earnestly that he never noticed the men with nets and spears who had come to entrap the beasts. Although the creatures were frightened they did not move nor growl for fear of disturbing their master, but kept quite still, glaring at the soldiers with big yellow eyes. The men were so astonished at the sight that they stole away without capturing an animal or saying a word to Saint Blaise, for they thought he must be Orpheus or some heathen god who charmed wild beasts.

They went to the Governor and told him what they had seen, and he said, "Ho! I know he is a Christian. The Christians and the beasts are great friends. Go and bring him to me straightway."

And this time the soldiers went in the afternoon when the animals were taking their after-dinner nap. So they found Saint Blaise quite alone, again at his devotions. They told him he must come with them; but instead of being frightened he said joyfully, "I am ready, I have long expected you." For he was a holy man willing to die for his faith, and holy men often knew what was going to happen to them.

It was on his way to prison that Saint Blaise cured his last patient — a sick child whose mother brought him to the holy man's feet begging help. The child had swallowed a bone and was choking to death, poor little thing. But Saint Blaise touched the baby's throat and the trouble was gone. This is why in olden times people with sore throats always prayed to Saint Blaise to make them well.

The good Bishop was put in prison. And after that they tortured him, trying to make him promise not to be a Christian any longer. But Saint Blaise refused to become a heathen and to sacrifice to the gods. And so they determined that he must die. They would have put him in the arena with the wild beasts, but they knew that these faithful creatures would not harm their friend. The beasts could not save him from the cruel men, but at least they would not do anything to hurt him. Those which were still left in the forest howled and moaned about his deserted cave, and went sniffing and searching for him everywhere, like stray dogs who have lost their master. It was a sad day for the wood-creatures when Saint Blaise was taken from them forever.

The soldiers were told to drown Saint Blaise in the neighboring lake. But he made the sign of the Cross as they cast him from the boat, and the water bore him up, so that he walked upon it as if it were a floor, just as Christ did once upon the sea of Galilee. When the soldiers tried to do the same, however, thinking to follow and recapture him, they sank and were drowned. At last of his own free will Saint Blaise walked back to the shore, clothed in light and very beautiful to look upon; for he was ready and eager to die. He let the heathen seize him, and soon after this was beheaded.

In very old times it used to be the custom in England on the third of February to light great bonfires on all the hills —blazes in honor of his name.

And we can well believe that all the little animals came out of their dens and burrows and nests at the sight of these fires, and thought with loving hearts of the dear old Saint who so many years ago used to be kind to their ancestors, the beasts in the forests of Armenia.

Next: Saint Comgall and the Mice

(St. Blaise stained glass)

(700 words)

Saints: Saint Comgall and the Mice

This story is part of the Saints and Animals unit. Story source: The Book of Saints and Friendly Beasts by Abbie Farwell Brown (1900).

(Saint Comgall and the monks of Bangor)

Saint Comgall and the Mice

AT the place where the Irish Sea is narrowest is the town of Bangor. There the green hills of Saint Patrick's island smile over at the purple cliffs of Scotland across the lane of water where the ships pass to and fro, just as neighbors nod across a narrow street above the heads of the passers-by. And here at Bangor Saint Comgall built a monastery, thirteen hundred long years ago.

This does not sound very interesting, but it was interesting to many people in those days, and I think it will be interesting to you. For Comgall is an Irish word which means "the goodly pledge." And the man who bore this name was a goodly pledge of friendship between man and beast.

Comgall had many pupils in his monastery, and many friends living near who loved and honored him. They did splendid things together, and tales of their doings were put into great books. But the most interesting stories of all are about certain friends of Saint Comgall who could not speak Irish and who did not wear clothes. Some of these friends wore feathers and some wore fur; the strangest story of all is about his friends with long tails and very sharp teeth. But you must wait for that till I have told about the swans.

One day Comgall was walking with some friends on the bank of a pond. All of a sudden, through the rushes and the tall grass some one spied six beautiful white swans floating on the water, preening their fine feathers and arching their necks proudly. For they could see in the water, just as if it were a mirror, how handsome they were, and it made them vain.

"Oh, Father," cried Comgall's pupils (they always called their teacher "Father" in those days), "see the lovely swans! May we not coax them ashore? We want to play with them."

Comgall chuckled inside, for he felt sure that the swans would not come to them, because they were strangers. But he said with a twinkle in his eye, "Oh, yes, boys. Call them here if you can. But you must give them something to tempt them, or I fear they will hardly come."

Then the boys tried to find a crust of bread or some crumbs in their pockets, to throw to the swans. But no one had anything, not even a peanut; for peanuts were not invented in those days. They stood on the bank whistling and calling, trying in every way to make the swans swim ashore. But the birds only cocked their red-rimmed eyes at the boys and fluttered their wings timidly.

"We don't know you," they squawked with their harsh voices. "The like of you are no friends of ours. Hurrooh! Go away and leave our pond in peace."

All this time Comgall had been standing behind them on the bank laughing at the vain attempts of his pupils. But now he walked quietly down to the pond. Making a little croony sound in his throat, he put out his hand towards the swans, but with no crumbs to tempt them.

The swans had never before seen him. But as soon as they heard his voice you should have seen the commotion! How the water did wrinkle and spatter as those dignified birds scurried headlong towards Comgall!

(photo by Bruce McAdam)

Each one seemed trying to be the first to reach his side; and each one flapped his wings and went almost into a fit for fear another should get ahead of him. So finally they reached the bank and gathered around Comgall, talking to him all at once and telling him how much they liked the look of him. And one great white swan fluttered into the old man's lap and sat there letting himself be stroked and patted, stretching his long neck up to Comgall's face and trying to kiss him with beaky lips.

You can imagine how the pupils stared at this strange sight. For they knew that the swans were as truly strangers to Saint Comgall as to the rest of them. But the swans had guessed in some way that this was a man who loved all animals, and that is why they were not afraid, but loved him as soon as they saw him.

But this next is the stranger story. Mice are harder even than swans for most people to get acquainted with. But Comgall had also made the mice his friends, as you shall see.

Next: Saint Comgall and the Mice (cont.)

(700 words)

Saints: Saint Comgall and the Mice (cont.)

This story is part of the Saints and Animals unit. Story source: The Book of Saints and Friendly Beasts by Abbie Farwell Brown (1900).

Saint Comgall and the Mice (cont.)

There came a time of famine in Ireland, and there was not food enough to go around, as has often happened there from the earliest days until even now. Comgall and his household at Bangor were very hungry. But what made it hardest to bear was that they knew where there was plenty of food close by, if only they could get it. For Croadh was a great Prince who lived in the neighborhood, and Croadh had barns and storehouses full of grain which could be made into bread. But he was a selfish, stingy man and would not give away or even sell his stores, for he would rather see the people starve.

Now Croadh had a wicked old mother living in his palace, who was even more cruel than himself: her name was Luch, and Luch means in Irish "the Mouse." And it was her name which put an idea into Comgall's head.

After sending all sorts of messengers to beg Croadh to give them some of his grain; after trying all sorts of ways to make him sell it, Comgall went himself to the Prince's palace to see what he could do. He carried with him a beautiful silver goblet which had been given him by some one as a present, and it was worth many bushels of grain.

Comgall strode into the Prince's hall and stood before Croadh holding out the goblet in his hand. And he said, "Here, O Prince, is a valuable thing. We are starving in the monastery, and silver we cannot eat. Give me and my monks some of your golden grain and I will exchange for it the silver cup. Be merciful, O Croadh, and hear me."

But the Chief only laughed and said mockingly, "Not so. You keep your silver goblet and I will keep my golden grain. Your beggarly pupils shall not eat of my stores. I want all, every grain, for my old Mouse." And by that word he meant his mother, the black-eyed, wrinkled, gray old Luch, whose name meant "the Mouse." For she was the most miserly, wicked, old woman in the world, and she had made him promise not to give up any of the grain. Then Comgall was angry, because he saw that the Prince meant to see the people starve.

"Very well," he said, fixing his eyes sternly upon Croadh, "as you have said, so shall it be. The mouse shall have your grain." And drawing his robe about him he strode home with the useless silver goblet.

As I have said, the mice were Comgall's friends. He had only to call them and explain what the hard-hearted Prince had done; he had only to tell the mice what he wished them to do, and the matter was settled. The word spread through the kingdom of the mice, carried by the quickest messenger with the shortest tail. All the mice became enemies of Croadh. And there were many mice in Bangor in those days.

That very night when every one was asleep, out of every hole and corner came peeping little pointed noses and quivering whiskers.

(mouse)

And a great procession of long-tailed tiny things formed into line and crept along, and along, up the hill, and up the walls, and into the barns of Croadh. A legion of mice, thousands upon thousands of them in a gray-uniformed army, pounced upon the Prince's precious grain and ate up every kernel.

So the next morning when Croadh went to his barns he found them empty.

There was not so much as a single yellow dot of grain left anywhere.

But out of every crack and crevice peeped a pair of twinkling black eyes which watched him saucily. Then Croadh began to bellow and roar with anger, and the wicked old woman Luch, his mother, came hobbling in to see what was the matter. But when the mice saw her they gave a chorus of fierce squeaks as if crying "Mouse! Mouse! Mouse!"

Then Croadh remembered what Comgall had said, that the mouse should have his grain after all. And he guessed what the Saint had meant, and knew that Comgall had taken this way to punish a selfish and cruel man.

Next: The Wonders of Saint Berach

(Saints Comgall, Gall and Columban)

(700 words)

Saints: The Wonders of Saint Berach

This story is part of the Saints and Animals unit. Story source: The Book of Saints and Friendly Beasts by Abbie Farwell Brown (1900).

The Wonders of Saint Berach

THE life of Saint Berach was full of wonders from the very first. For when he was a boy at home in the house of his father, Nemnald, he had a vision. An angel appeared to him and beckoned him to follow. So he went, and the angel led him straight to the monastery at Glendalough where holy Saint Coemgen lived with his friend the white doe, and taught boys to be wise. And Berach joined the other boys to be taught all that Saint Coemgen knew, and to learn other things beside.

(Saint Coemgen)

Ireland was a wild country in those days, for this was only six hundred years after Christ's birth and the little towns had hardly begun to grow. The huts which men had made in the wilderness—calling them houses and schools and churches—were not close together but far, far apart. Wild beasts prowled everywhere, and there were no policemen.

Close by the monastery were the broad green meadows where the monks pastured the herds of cows which gave them milk. From the windows of his cell the young monk loved to watch the cows and their calves browsing the juicy grass and wading in the brooks which ran under the rows of willows. He especially loved Bel, the sleekest, most beautiful of them all, a proud mother cow who had a new little red calf.

One day as he was watching Bel and her baby who had strayed a little distance from the rest of the herd, he saw something which frightened him. A great gray wolf was hiding in the shadow of a hedge, creeping nearer and nearer to the peaceful pair. But Bel did not guess that an enemy was so near. Berach hurried down the turret stair and out of the gate, hardly pausing to tell the brother porter whither he was going. For he knew there was no time to lose.

He ran to the meadow, and pushed through the blooming hedge of hawthorne. But alas! he had come too late. The great gaunt wolf, who was very hungry, had pounced upon the little red calf, and had eaten it up. Poor Bel, wild with grief, ran lowing about the pasture as if seeking for her little one. But the wolf was slinking out of sight.

When Berach saw what had been done, at first he was very angry with the wolf, for he loved Bel dearly, and it troubled him to see her sad. He thought how lonely the poor cow would be without her calf, and when she came pitifully lowing up to him as if asking him to help her, the tears stood in his kind eyes. But then he thought how hungry the wolf must have been. Poor thing, how thin and hollow he had looked — perhaps he was not so much to blame after all. Probably he had never been taught any better.

And then a strange idea came to Berach. He was a wonderful man, and he must have had great power over animals. For he called to the wolf, who was already some distance away; he called loudly and in a stern voice. You will hardly believe it, but the wolf came slinking back, frightened and whining like a naughty puppy, and crouched at Berach's feet. Then the Saint spoke kindly to the wolf, no longer treating him like a murderer and a thief. He called the cow also, and taking her by the horns led her gently to the wolf, soothing her so that she was not afraid of the great gray beast.

And Berach said to the cow, "See, Mother Bel, this shall be your child now, in place of the little one which is gone. He will be a kind and gentle son to you, I promise."

And to the wolf he said, "Here, Wolf, is the mother whom you need to make you gentle and good. You shall be kind to her, and make her forget the wrong you have done by being a loving and dutiful son, ever doing her bidding."

So after that the cow and the meek wolf dwelt peacefully together in the meadows of the monastery, and he shielded her from danger, and like a huge watchdog kept away the other wild beasts from the herd.

After that came a winter when for weeks the ground was white with snow, and the laughing mouths of the brooks were sealed with ice. Duke Colman's little son had been sent to school at the monastery, and the boy was very ill. He was hot and thirsty, and his throat was parched with fever. So little Edward begged for juicy apples, and for salad of fresh sorrel leaves — things which were not to be found in all the land in the dead of winter. But Coemgen the Abbot trusted in the power of his young friend who could tame wolves. "Go forth, my son," he said to Berach, "take my staff and bring what the boy needs."

Then Berach retired to his cell and prayed that he might be blessed to save the dear child's life. After that with faith and courage age he went out into the white meadows, using the Abbot's staff to help him over the great drifts of snow. He came to the row of willows by the frozen brook where the cows had loved to wade. And here he paused. Lifting the staff, he touched the bare brown branches of the willow on which the snow clung like shreds of cotton wool, and he pronounced a blessing. Instantly the snow began to melt as it does before the sun in April. The stiff brown twigs turned green and became tender and full of life. Then gray willow buds put forth woolly little pussy-willows, which seemed fairly bursting, like fat round kittens. They grew bigger and bigger, rounder and rounder, till at last they really did burst, and plumped great rosy-checked apples into the lap of the Saint, who held up the skirt of his gray gown to catch them as they fell. Lo, under the trees meanwhile the snowdrifts had melted, and little green leaves were poking up through the frozen ground.

And Berach gathered there a great bunch of juicy, tart sorrel which makes such good salad. Then with his arms full — what with this and his apples and the blessed staff — he floundered back through the snowdrifts to the monastery. They received him eagerly and there was great rejoicing. Little Edward was revived by the out-of-season dainties thus miraculously provided for him, and soon became quite well again.

Next: The Wonders of Saint Berach (cont.)

(apple in winter)

(1100 words)

Saints: The Wonders of Saint Berach (cont.)

This story is part of the Saints and Animals unit. Story source: The Book of Saints and Friendly Beasts by Abbie Farwell Brown (1900).

(Glendalough in winter)

The Wonders of Saint Berach (cont.)

It was many years after this, again a hard and cruel winter, when Saint Berach made another wonder come to pass. Meantime he had grown older and even wiser. He had himself been made Abbot and had built a monastery of his own in a lonely place far away from Glendalough. But he had an enemy. There was a rich man who wanted the land which Berach had chosen, and who was so envious that he tried to do him spite in every way he could. He even sought to destroy the monastery. Then Berach appealed to the King for protection, and both men were summoned to the court.

The rich man went in a chariot, splendid in his fine robes of fur, with a gold chain about his neck. And the guards hurried to let down the portcullis for him, and with low bows bade him enter. But when Saint Berach came he wore only his gray monk's robe, all torn and tattered. He was shivering with cold, and weak from having walked so far. So they thought him a mere beggar and would not let him in.

As he stood outside the gate, friendless and alone, some rude boys who had gathered there began to laugh and jeer at his bare sandaled feet and the rents in his robe through which the cold winds blew. They made snowballs and rushed upon him in a crowd, like the cowards they were, pelting the poor man most cruelly. But suddenly, what do you think? Their arms stiffened as they raised them to throw the balls; their legs stuck fast in the snow; the grins froze on their faces; and they were almost choked by the shouts which turned to ice in their throats. What had happened? Well, Saint Berach had merely breathed upon them, and they were as if turned into ice, so that they could not stir. Br-r-r! How cold they were!

Then the Saint made ready to warm himself. A drift of snow had fallen from the palace gate when it opened to let in the rich man. And going up to this he blew upon it. He blew a warm breath this time. Instantly the whole heap burst into flame, and snapped and crackled like the fire in the chimney-place of the dining-hall at home. In front of this merry blaze the good Saint stood, warming his hands and thawing out his poor frozen feet. But the group of boys stood like statues of snow; so cold, so cold, but unable to come nearer to the fire, so frightened, so frightened, but unable to run away.

This is what the King's guards saw when, terrified by the crackling of the fire and the great light which shone through the chinks of the gate, they came to see what it all meant. They ran to the King and told him of the strange sight. And he himself with a crowd of courtiers came out to look. When he saw the ragged beggar who had done all this he was filled with amazement. He immediately suspected that this must be a holy man and powerful. So he invited Berach into the palace hall, and there listened to his story.

Now when all was done the rich man was bundled away in disgrace, for daring to meddle with the good works of so wonderful a Saint. But Berach was honored and admired.

Before he went back to his monastery they begged him to restore the naughty boys to life and motion. Now Berach had wanted only to teach there a lesson, not to punish them too severely, for he was too kind-hearted to injure any living creature. So going out into the courtyard he blew upon the snow figures, and once more they became live boys. You can imagine how glad they were when they found they were able to move their legs and arms again.

Now Berach went back to his monastery in one of the King's chariots, with a robe of fur and a gold chain about his neck. And you may be sure he carried with him many other gifts and precious things from the King, who never thereafter suffered him to be troubled in his far-off retreat.

Next: The Fish Who Helped Saint Gudwall

(700 words)

Saints: The Fish Who Helped Saint Gudwall

This story is part of the Saints and Animals unit. Story source: The Book of Saints and Friendly Beasts by Abbie Farwell Brown (1900).

The Fish Who Helped Saint Gudwall

THE Welsh coast is famous for its beautiful scenery and its terrible storms. People who see it in the summer time think only of the beautiful scenery. But if they should happen to pass that way in midwinter they would be very apt to meet an unpleasant reminder of the terrible storms.

Saint Gudwall was born a Welshman, and he should have known all this. Perhaps he did know, but chose to run into danger just because it was dangerous, as so many saints loved to do in those years when it was thought no virtue to take care of one's life. At all events, it was summer when with one friend Gudwall moved to his new home, a tiny island off the coast of Wales, which at that time was very beautiful.

The first thing they did was to set about finding a place to live in. The island was one of those high mountains poking up out of the sea, with green grass on top, like colored frosting to a cake; and gray rocks below, all hollowed out into deep caves and crannies, as if mice had been nibbling at the cake. These caves are just the sort of places which smugglers and pirates choose to hide in with their treasures, for no one would think of hunting for any one there. And Gudwall wanted to be left alone with his pupil, so he thought there was no reason why a bad man's hiding-place should not make a good saint's retreat. So they chose the largest and deepest of all the caves, and there they put their books and their beds and their little furniture, and set up housekeeping.

Their home was one of those caves into which the sea rushes a little way and then suddenly backs out again as if it had changed its mind this time but would call again. Gudwall and his pupil loved to lie in their cave just beyond the reach of the waves and watch them dash laughingly up on the rocks, then roar and gurgle in pretended anger and creep away out into the blue basin beyond. In summer their daily games with the sea were great fun, and Gudwall was very happy. They spent some lovely months alone with the waves and the rocks and the sea-birds which now and then fluttered screaming into the dark cave, and then again dashed bashfully out when they found they had come uninvited into a stranger's home. It was all very nice and peaceful and pretty in the summer time, just as tourists find it to this day.

But oh! what a change when old Winter came roaring down over the waves from the North in his chariot of ice, drawn by fierce winds and angry storm-clouds. Then the temper of the sea was changed. It grew cruel and hungry. It left off its kindly game with the lonely dwellers on the island, and seemed instead to have become their enemy. It tried to seize and swallow them in its cruel jaws.

One morning there came a terrible storm. In the far end of the cave Gudwall and the other were nearly swept away by a huge wave which rushed in to devour them. No longer content with pausing on the threshold, the sea swept through their whole house, dashing away their little store of books and furniture, a most unneighborly thing to do. It tried to drag the two men from the corner where they clung to the rough rock. Choked and gasping they escaped this time, while the sea drew back for another plunge. But they did not wait for this, for they knew it would mean their death.

(storm off the coast of Wales)

Drenched as they were and blinded by the salt spray, they scrambled out of the cave and began to climb the slippery seaweed to the rocks above. It was a hard and dangerous ascent, for the sea leaped after them to pull them back, snarling angrily at their heels like a fierce beast maddened by their escape. But it could not quite seize them, and at last they reached the top of the cliff where they were safe for the time.

But what were they to do now? There were no houses on the island, no place to go to keep warm; yet they could not live out in the open air to freeze in the snow and cold. It was no longer possible to live in the cave if the sea was to wash through it like this. But if only there were some barrier to keep out the stormy waves they could still live in their beloved cave. Saint Gudwall fell upon his knees and prayed for help — prayed for some defense against the winter waves.

And what do you think happened? The dwellers in the sea were kinder than the sea itself. The little fish who live safely in the angriest waves were sorry for the big men who were so powerless in the face of this danger. From the sea caves far under the island's foot, from the beds of seaweed and the groves of coral, from the sandy bottom of the ocean fathoms deep below, the fish came swimming in great shoals about Gudwall's island. And each one bore in his mouth a grain of sand. They swam into the shallow water just outside the cave where Gudwall had lived, and one by one they placed their burdens on the sandy bottom. One by one they paused to see that it was well done, then swiftly swam away, to return as soon as might be with another grain of sand.

All day long a procession of fish, like people in line at a ticket office, moved steadily up to the shallows and back again. So by night a little bar of sand had begun to grow gradually before the entrance to the cave.

 Now Saint Gudwall and his pupil were shivering on the top of the cliff, and looking off to sea, when the pupil caught his master's arm. "What is that down there in the water?" he said, pointing to a little brown spot peering above the waves.

"I know not," answered the Saint; "what seems it to be, brother?"

"I have been watching it," said the other, "and I think it grows. Look! It is even now higher than when first you looked; is it not so?"

And sure enough. Gudwall saw that ever so little at a time the brown patch was growing and spreading from right to left. Grain by grain the sand bar rose higher and higher till it thrust bravely above the blueness a solid wall extending for some distance through the water in front of the cave. Against this new breakwater the surf roared and foamed in terrible rage, but it could not pass, it could no longer swoop down into the cavern as it had done before.

"The Lord has given us a defense," said Gudwall with a thankful heart. And then his eye caught sight of a great bluefish swim- ming back into the deep sea.

"It is the fish who have built us the wall," he cried. "Blessed be the fish who have this day helped us in our need."

For the fish had piled up a stout and lasting barrier between Saint Gudwall and the angry sea, and thenceforth he could live in his cave safely during both summer and winter.

Next: The Wolf-Mother of Saint Ailbe

(1300 words)

Saints: The Wolf-Mother of Saint Ailbe

This story is part of the Saints and Animals unit. Story source: The Book of Saints and Friendly Beasts by Abbie Farwell Brown (1900).

(Saint Ailbe)

The Wolf-Mother of Saint Ailbe

THIS is the story of a poor little Irish baby whose cruel father and mother did not care anything about him. But because they could not sell him nor give him away they tried to lose him. They wrapped him in a piece of cloth and took him up on the mountain side, and there they left him lying all alone on a bush of heather.

Now an old mother wolf was out taking her evening walk on the mountain after tending her babies in the den all day. And just as she was passing the heather bush she heard a faint, funny little cry. She pricked up her pointed ears and said, "What's that!" And lo and behold, when she came to sniff out the mystery with her keen nose, it led her straight to the spot where the little pink baby lay, crying with cold and hunger.

The heart of the kind mother wolf was touched, for she thought of her own little ones at home, and how sad it would be to see them so helpless and lonely and forgotten. So she picked the baby up in her mouth carefully and ran home with him to her den in the rocks at the foot of the mountain. Here the little one, whose name was Ailbe, lived with the baby wolves, sharing their breakfast and dinner and supper, playing and quarreling and growing up with them. The wolf-mother took good care of him and saw that he had the best of everything, for she loved him dearly indeed. And Ailbe grew stronger and stronger, taller and taller, handsomer and handsomer every day, living his happy life in the wild woods of green Ireland.

Now one day, a year or two after this, a hunter came riding over the mountain on his way home from the chase, and he happened to pass near the cave where Ailbe and the wolves lived. As he was riding along under the trees he saw a little white creature run across the path in front of him. At first he thought it was a rabbit; but it was too big for a rabbit, and besides it did not hop.

The hunter jumped down from his horse and ran after the funny animal to find out what it was. His long legs soon overtook it in a clump of bushes where it was hiding, and imagine the hunter's surprise when he found that it had neither fur nor horns nor four feet nor a tail, but that it was a beautiful child who could not stand upright, and whose little bare body ran on all-fours like a baby wolf! It was little Ailbe, the wolf-mother's pet, who had grown so fast that he was almost able to take care of himself. But he was not quite able, the hunter thought, and he said to himself that he would carry the poor little thing home to his kind wife, that she might take care of him. So he caught Ailbe up in his arms, kicking and squealing and biting like the wild little animal he was, and wrapped him in a corner of his great cloak. Then he jumped on his horse with a chirrup and galloped away out of the woods towards his village.

But Ailbe did not want to leave his forest home, the wolf-den, and his little wolf brothers. Especially he did not want to leave his dear foster mother. So he screamed and struggled to get away from the big hunter, and he called to the wolves in their own language to come and help him. Then out of the forest came bounding the great mother wolf with her four children, now grown to be nearly as big as herself. She chased after the fleeting horse and snapped at the loose end of the huntsman's cloak, howling with grief and anger. But she could not catch the thief, nor get back her adopted son, the little smooth-skinned foundling.

So, after following them for miles, the five wolves gradually dropped further and further behind. And at last, as he stretched out his little arms to them over the hunter's velvet shoulder, Ailbe saw them stop in the road panting, with one last howl of farewell. They had given up the hopeless chase. And with their tails between their legs and their heads drooping low they slunk back to their lonely den where they would never see their little boy playmate any more. It was a sad day for good wolf-mother.

But the hunter carried little Ailbe home with him on the horse's back. And he found a new mother there to receive him. Ailbe never knew who his first mother was, but she must have been a bad, cruel woman. His second mother was the kind wolf. And this one, the third, was a beautiful Princess. For the hunter who had found the child was a Prince, and he lived in a grand castle by a lake near Tipperary, with hundreds of servants and horses and dogs and little pages for Ailbe to play with. And here he lived and was very happy; and here he learned all the things which in those days made a little boy grow up into a wise and great man. He grew up so wise and great that he was made a Bishop and had a palace of his own in the town of Emly. People came to see him from far and near, who made him presents, and asked him questions, and ate his dinners.

But though he had grown so great and famous Ailbe had never forgotten his second mother, the good wolf, nor his four-footed brothers, in their coats of gray fur. And sometimes when his visitors were stupid and stayed a long time, or when they asked too many questions, or when they made him presents which he did not like, Ailbe longed to be back in the forest with the good beasts. For they had much more sense, though they had never kissed the Blarney Stone, which makes one talk good Irish.

Next: The Wolf-Mother of Saint Ailbe (cont.)

(1000 words)

Saints: The Wolf-Mother of Saint Ailbe (cont.)

This story is part of the Saints and Animals unit. Story source: The Book of Saints and Friendly Beasts by Abbie Farwell Brown (1900).

The Wolf-Mother of Saint Ailbe (cont.)

A great many years afterwards there was one day a huge hunt in Emly. All the lords for miles around were out chasing the wild beasts, and among them was the Prince, Ailbe's foster-father. But the Bishop himself was not with them. He did not see any sport in killing poor creatures.

It was almost night, and the people of Emly were out watching for the hunters to return. The Bishop was coming down the village street on his way from church, when the sound of horns came over the hills close by, and he knew the chase was nearing home.

Louder and louder came the "tantara-tara!" of the horns, and then he could hear the gallopy thud of the horses' hoofs and the yelp of the hounds. But suddenly the Bishop's heart stood still. Among all the other noises of the chase he heard a sound which made him think—think—think. It was the long-drawn howl of a wolf, a sad howl of fear and weariness and pain. It spoke a language which he had almost forgotten. But hardly had he time to think again and to remember, before down the village street came a great gaunt figure, flying in long leaps from the foremost dogs who were snapping at her heels. It was Ailbe's wolf-mother.

He recognized her as soon as he saw her green eyes and the patch of white on her right foreleg. And she recognized him, too — how I cannot say, for he had changed greatly since she last saw him, a naked little sunbrowned boy. But at any rate, in his fine robes of purple and linen and rich lace, with the mitre on his head and the crozier in his hand, the wolf-mother knew her dear son. With a cry of joy she bounded up to him and laid her head on his breast, as if she knew he would protect her from the growling dogs and the fierce-eyed hunters. And the good Bishop was true to her. For he drew his beautiful velvet cloak about her tired, panting body, and laid his hand lovingly on her head. Then in the other he held up his crook warningly to keep back the ferocious dogs.

"I will protect thee, old mother," he said tenderly. "When I was little and young and feeble, thou didst nourish and cherish and protect me; and now that thou art old and gray and weak, shall I not render the same love and care to thee? None shall injure thee."

Then the hunters came tearing up on their foaming horses and stopped short to find what the matter was. Some of them were angry and wanted even now to kill the poor wolf, just as the dogs did who were prowling about snarling with disappointment. But Ailbe would have none of it. He forbade them to touch the wolf. And he was so powerful and wise and holy that they dared not disobey him, but had to be content with seeing their hunt spoiled and their prey taken out of their clutches.

But before the hunters and their dogs rode away, Saint Ailbe had something more to say to them. And he bade all the curious townsfolk who had gathered about him and the wolf to listen also. He repeated the promise which he had made to the wolf, and warned every one thenceforth not to hurt her or her children, either in the village, or in the woods, or on the mountain. And turning to her once more he said: "See, mother, you need not fear. They dare not hurt you now you have found your son to protect you. Come every day with my brothers to my table, and you and yours shall share my food, as once I so often shared yours."

And so it was. Every day after that so long as she lived the old wolf-mother brought her four children to the Bishop's palace and howled at the gate for the porter to let them in.

(photo by Tambako)

And every day he opened to them, and the steward showed the five into the great dining hall where Ailbe sat at the head of the table, with five places set for the rest of the family. And there with her five dear children about her in a happy circle the kind wolf-mother sat and ate the good things which the Bishop's friends had sent him. But the child she loved best was none of those in furry coats and fine whiskers who looked like her; it was the blue-eyed Saint at the top of the table in his robes of purple and white.

But Saint Ailbe would look about him at his mother and his brothers and would laugh contentedly.

"What a handsome family we are!" he would say. And it was true.

Next: The Ballad of Saint Athracta's Stags

(800 words)

Saints: The Ballad of Saint Athracta's Stags

This story is part of the Saints and Animals unit. Story source: The Book of Saints and Friendly Beasts by Abbie Farwell Brown (1900).

The Ballad of Saint Athracta's Stags

Athracta was a maiden fair,

A Prince's daughter she;

Down to her feet fell golden hair,

A wondrous sight to see.

And all amid this golden shower,

The sweetest rosebud face

Blossomed like a dew-fed flower

Upon a stem of grace.

Yet loved she not the court of kings,

But in the wild would be,

With but one maid her hair to braid

And bear her company.

So, near Lough Cara's silver sheen,

They built of turf and bark

A hut wherein from springtide green

They dwelt through winter's dark.

On seven cross-roads the hut was made,

That they might offer rest

To pilgrims by the night waylaid,

And strangers hunger-pressed.

To draw them water from the lake,

To till their little soil,

Two ancient horses did they take,

Outworn for other toil.

Once gallant chargers these had been,

Keen-eyed and prancing gay,

Who tourneys brave and wars had seen,

All decked in bright array.

But now their age in peace was spent

By kind Athracta's side;

No gallant wars, no tournament,

And yet they served with pride.

Their neighbors in the forest glades

Were stately, antlered deer,

Nor of the two most holy maids

Had these, their brothers, fear.

So dwelt the maidens there alone

For many months and years,

The doings of the world unknown,

Its wars, its woes, its tears.

But strife was stirring in the land,

And kings must castles build,

To guard them from the foeman's hand

With fire and weapon filled.

And so the King's most stern decree

Went forth upon a day,—

"My serfs must build a fort for me,

Each must his service pay.

"Each man and maiden must fulfill

In this great work his share;

It is the King of Connaught's will,

Let tardy hands beware!"

Athracta sent unto the King:

"We be but maidens twain,

My Liege, we cannot do this thing,

I beg we may refrain."

But sternly sent he back the word,—

"Ye maids must do your part."

He was a hard and cruel lord,

No pity touched his heart.

So forth they fared into the wood,

Athracta with her maid,

To fell the timber as they could,

Without of men for aid.

Heavy the axe and full of pain

Each weak and skill-less stroke,

Yet strove the maids again, again,

With walnut, beech, and oak.

Until upon the wagon cast

By which the horses stood,

Their bleeding hands had piled at last

The goodly logs of wood.

But when Athracta saw the steeds

Straining with feeble will

To draw the heavy load, it needs

Must make her eyes to fill.

Athracta spoke all piteously,

"Alack! poor broken things,

Must you, too, bear your painful share

To save the pride of Kings?

"How can I ease your burden, how,

My faithful servants still?

My little bands are bleeding now

With toil beyond their skill."

"O mistress dear," then spoke her maid,

"These be but feeble nags;

How would the King's pride be dismayed

If you could harness Stags!"

"Thou sayest well," Athracta vowed.

"Come hither, Stags!" she cried,

And lo! the thud of hoofs grew loud

Ere yet the echo died.

"Come hither, Stags!" O'er green and glade

The silver summons thrilled,

And soon the space about the maid

With antlered kings was filled.

Through moss and fern and tangled trees

Twelve panting creatures broke,

And bending low their stately knees

They knelt beneath the yoke.

Now harnessed in the horses' stead

The great Stags strained their best,

To please the lady at their head

And follow her behest.

But lo! a vexing thing then happed;

Scarce had they gained the road,

 The rusty chains of iron snapped

Beneath the heavy load.

Yet paused she not in weak despair,

This noble-hearted maid,

But loosed her heavy golden hair

Out from its double braid.

She loosed her locks so wonder-bright

And shook them to the breeze;—

It seemed a beam of yellow light

Had sifted through the trees.

Then from amid this golden net

She plucked some silken strands.

And where the chains had first been set

She bound them with her hands.

She tied the ends against the strain,

And knotted them with care,

Then bade the Stags pull once again

Upon the ropes of hair.

And lo! the slender harness held,

And lo! the antlered steeds

Went forth to prove their generous love

Lent to a maiden's needs.

Straight to the King her gift they bore

To fill his heart with shame;

And her true maiden went before

To show him whence they came.

Now when the King this wonder saw

He turned all pale and red,

"She hath a greater power than law,"

He vowed, and bowed his head.

"She hath a greater power than I,

Whose slaves the wild stags be,

And golden hair like this might snare

E'en the wild heart of me.

"No need to her of castles stout.

No need of moat or tower,

With antlered guardians about

Her lonely wild-wood bower.

"No need to her of watch or ward.

With friends like these at hand;

Bid her from me henceforth to be

Queen of her little land.

"Henceforth she is no serf of mine,

Nor subject to my throne;

Where'er her golden hair may shine

That is her realm alone."

So where the seven cross-roads met

Still dwelt the holy maid,

Her hut a place of refuge set

For all who shelter prayed.

Her realm a holy place of peace,

Where, with the ancient nags,

Lived out their days in pleasant ways

Athracta's faithful Stags.

Next: The Ballad of Saint Felix

(photo by James Blunt)

(900 words)

Saints: The Ballad of Saint Felix

This story is part of the Saints and Animals unit. Story source: The Book of Saints and Friendly Beasts by Abbie Farwell Brown (1900).

(upper right: Felix's spider web)

The Ballad of Saint Felix

It was in sunny Italy
Where skies are blue and fair,
Where little birds sing all the day,
And flowers scent the air.

But sorrow was through all the land,
And bloody deeds, and strife,
For the cruel heathen Emperor
Was slaying Christian life.

And Nola of Campania
Was full of soldiers grim,
Who sought where good Saint Felix dwelt,
To be the death of him,

For he, the Bishop, old and wise,
Was famous far and near,
And to the troubled Christian folk
His name was passing dear.

Saint Felix would not run away,
But thought no shame to hide
Until the bloody storm passed o'er,
And he might safely bide.

And so he doffed his Bishop's robe,
And donned a Pilgrim's dress,
With hat and staff and sandal-shoon,
So none his name would guess.

Now as Saint Felix, bent and gray,
Was tottering down the street,
A band of soldiers, fierce and wild,
The old man chanced to meet.

"Ho! Pilgrim," cried the Captain stern,
Who stopped him with his sword,
"Answer me truly, or thy life
Shall pay the lying word.

"We sought for Felix at his home,
We find him not, alas!
Say, hast thou met him, for within
The hour he did pass?

"Say, hast thou met him? Tell us true,
Or thou shalt lose thy head."
Saint Felix looked him in the eyes,
"I met  him not," he said.

So then the soldiers let him pass,—
But he had spoken truth,—
And hurried forward on their search,
A fruitless quest, in sooth!

And good Saint Felix hastened too,
As quickly as he might,
For they would guess full soon, he knew.
How he had tricked their sight.

And truly, ere his oaken staff
Had helped his feeble feet
To win a mile, he heard their shouts
A-nearing down the street.

He heard the clashing of their swords,
Their voices' cruel roar,
Alack! the chase was almost done,
For he could speed no more.

All breathless, worn, and clean forspent
He looked about him there;
He spied a tiny ray of hope,
And made a little prayer.

There was a broken, ruined wall
That crumbled by the road,
And through a cleft Saint Felix crept,
And in a corner bode.

It was a sorry hiding-place,
That scarce could hope to 'scape
The keen sight of those bloody men,
For murder all agape.

But lo! in answer to his prayer
Made in the Holy Name,
To help Saint Felix in his need
A little spider came.

And there across the narrow hole
Through which Saint Felix fled,
The spider spun a heavy web
Out of her silken thread.

So fast she spun, so faithfully,
That when the soldiers came
To pause beside the ruined wall
And shout the Bishop's name,

They found a silken curtain there
Wherethrough they could not see;
And "Ho!" they said, "he is not here,
Look, look! it cannot be;

"No one has passed this spider's web
For many and many a day,
See, men, how it is thick and strong;"
And so they went away.

And this is how Saint Felix fared
To 'scape the threatened doom,
Saved by a little spider's web,
Spun from her wondrous loom.

For when the soldiers all had passed
It luckily befell,
Among the ruins of the walls
He found a half-dug well.

And there he hid for many months,
Safe from the eager eyes
Of all those cruel soldier-men
And money-seeking spies.

And on the eve when this thing happed,
It chanced a Christian dame
Was passing by the ruined wall
Calling her Bishop's name.

For well she knew he must be hid,
And came to bring him food;
And so he answered from the well,
Saint Felix, old and good.

And for the many weary months
She came there, day by day,
All stealthily to bring him bread,
So no one guessed the way.

And when at last the peace was made,
Saint Felix left his well.
What welcome of his folk he had
There are no words to tell!

Next: The Ballad of Saint Giles and the Deer

(700 words)

Saints: The Ballad of Saint Giles and the Deer

This story is part of the Saints and Animals unit. Story source: The Book of Saints and Friendly Beasts by Abbie Farwell Brown (1900).

(Saint Giles and the deer)

The Ballad of Saint Giles and the Deer

All in the forest far away

Where no one ever came,

There dwelt a good man, old and gray,—

Saint Giles the hermit's name.

His forest home a rocky cave

Beneath an aspen tree;

And for his friend Saint Giles did have

A Deer, who wandered free.

A gentle red and mottled Deer

Who made her home close by.

Who at his call came without fear.

Forgetting to be shy.

Sure never all in lovely France

Was there a Deer so tame;

Ah, but to see her start and prance

When he would call her name!

She gave him milk, his simple fare,

And browsed upon the green,

Ah, such a gentle, loving pair

I wis was never seen.

And he was happy in his cell,

And joyous 'neath his trees,

Content with woodland beasts to dwell,

His only neighbors these.

The wood was dark, the wood was grim,

And never till one day

Had human voices troubled him,

Or world-folk passed that way.

But on a dewy springtime morn

When April climbed the hill,

There came the wind of silver horn,

Halloos and whistles shrill;

The galloping of horses' feet,

The bloody bay of hounds,

Broke through the forest silence sweet

And echoed deadly sounds.

Saint Giles (National Gallery, London)

Saint Giles sat in his lonely cell,

Whenas the rout drew nigh;

But at the noise his kind heart fell

And sorrow dimmed his eye.

He loved not men who hunt to kill,

Loved not the rich and grand,

For in those days the Pagans still

Held lordship in the land.

But scarcely had he reached the door

And seized his staff of oak,

When like a billow with a roar

The chase upon him broke.

With one last hope of dear escape,

Into the open space

Bounded a light and graceful shape,

The quarry of the chase.

All flecked with foam, all quivering

With weariness and fear,

Crouched at his feet the hunted thing,

His gentle friend, the Deer.

Behind her bayed the pack of hounds,

Their cruel teeth gleamed white,

Nearing with eager leaps and bounds;

He turned sick at the sight.

Saint Giles looked down upon the Deer.

Saint Giles looked up again,

He saw the danger drawing near,

The death, with all its pain.

He laid his hand upon her head,

The soft head of his friend,—

"And shall I let thee die?" he said,

"And watch thy hapless end?"

He stooped and gently murmured, "Nay!"

Stroking her mottled side,

He stepped before her where she lay;

"They slay me first!" he cried.

Her frightened eyes looked up at him,

Her little heart beat high,

She trembled sore in every limb,—

The bushes parted nigh.

"Halloo! Halloo!" the huntsmen cried

As through the hedge they burst;

An archer all in green espied

The crouching quarry first.

Swift as a thought his arrow flew,

Saint Giles threw out his arm,

Alack! the aim was all to true,

Saint Giles must bear the harm.

The arrow pierced too well, too well;

All in that mournful wood

Saint Giles upon the greensward fell,

And dyed it with his blood.

He fell, but falling laid his hand

Upon the trembling Deer,—

"My life for hers, dost understand?"

He cried so all could hear.

Now as upon the green he lay

All in a deathly swound,

The King dashed up with courtiers gay

And looked upon his wound;

The King rode up, and "Ho!" he cried,

"Whom find we in our wood?

Who spares the deer with mottled hide?

Who sheds an old man's blood?"

The King looked down with ruthful eye

When all the thing was told,

"Alack!" he cried, "he must not die,

So kind a man and bold.

"Bear me the Saint into his cave;

Who falls to save his friend

Deserves for leech his King to have;

I will his pallet tend."

They spared to him the sore-bought Deer;

And in that lowly cell

For many weary days and drear

The King came there to dwell.

The King, who was a godless man,

A pagan, heart and soul,

Played nurse until the wound began

To heal, and Giles was whole.

But in the little forest cave

The King learned many things

Known to the meanest Christian slave,

But secrets from the kings.

For good Saint Giles had won his heart

By his brave deed and bold,

And ere the great King did depart

His Christian faith he told.

And while the red Deer stood beside,

The King gave Giles his word

That e'er a Christian he would bide,

And keep what he had heard.

And so the monarch rode away

And left the two alone,

Saint Giles a happy man that day,

The good Deer still his own.

Safe from the eager hunting horde

The Saint would keep his friend,

Protected by the King's own word

Thenceforth unto the end.

For unmolested in his cell,

Careless of everything

Giles with his friendly Deer could dwell

Liege to a Christian King.

Next: Saint Francis of Assisi

(Saint Giles fresco)

(800 words)