The Book of Saints and Friendly Beasts Part 4

"A fox must have stolen it," said he guiltily.

"Ay, a fox with black hair and a red, fat face," quoth Saint Werburgh sternly. "Do not tell me lies. You have taken him, Master Hugh. I can read it in your heart." Then he grew weak and confessed.

"Ay, I have taken the great gray goose," he said faintly. "Was it so very wrong?"

"He was a friend of mine and I love him dearly," said Saint Werburgh. At these words the Steward turned very pale indeed.

"I did not know," he gasped.

"Go and bring him to me, then," commanded the Saint, and pointed to the door. Master Hugh slunk out looking very sick and miserable and horribly frightened. For the truth was that he had been tempted by Grayking's fatness. He had carried the goose home and made him into a hot, juicy pie which he had eaten for that very morning's breakfast. So how could he bring the bird back to Saint Werburgh, no matter how sternly she commanded?

All day long he hid in the woods, not daring to let himself be seen by any one. For Saint Werburgh was a King's daughter; and if the King should learn what he had done to the pet of the Lady Abbess, he might have Hugh himself punished by being baked into a pie for the King's hounds to eat.

But at night he could bear it no longer. He heard the voice of Saint Werburgh calling his name very softly from the convent, "Master Hugh, Master Hugh, come, bring me my goose!" And just as the geese could not help coming when she called them, so he felt that he must go, whether he would or no. He went into his pantry and took down the remains of the great pie. He gathered up the bones of poor Grayking in a little basket, and with chattering teeth and shaking limbs stole up to the convent and knocked at the wicket gate.

Saint Werburgh was waiting for him. "I knew you would come," she said.

"Have you brought my goose?" Then silently and with trembling hands he took out the bones one by one and laid them on the ground before Saint Werburgh. So he stood with bowed head and knocking knees waiting to hear her p.r.o.nounce his punishment.

"Oh, you wicked man!" she said sadly. "You have killed my beautiful Grayking, who never did harm to any one except to steal a little corn."

"I did not know you loved him, Lady," faltered the man in self-defense.

"You ought to have known it," she returned; "you ought to have loved him yourself."

"I did, Lady Abbess," confessed the man. "That was the trouble. I loved him too well--in a pie."

"Oh, selfish, gluttonous man!" she exclaimed in disgust. "Can you not see the beauty of a dear little live creature till it is dead and fit only for your table? I shall have you taught better. Henceforth you shall be made to study the lives and ways of all things which live about the convent; and never again, for punishment, shall you eat flesh of any bird or beast. We will see if you cannot be taught to love them when they have ceased to mean Pie. Moreover, you shall be confined for two days and two nights in the pen where I kept the geese. And porridge shall be your only food the while. Go, Master Hugh."

So the wicked Steward was punished. But he learned his lesson; and after a little while he grew to love the birds almost as well as Saint Werburgh herself.

But she had not yet finished with Grayking. After Master Hugh had gone she bent over the pitiful little pile of bones which was all that was left of that unlucky pie. A tear fell upon them from her beautiful eyes; and kneeling down she touched them with her white fingers, speaking softly the name of the bird whom she had loved.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SAINT WERBURGH & HER GOOSE]

"Grayking, arise," she said. And hardly had the words left her mouth when a strange thing happened. The bones stirred, lifted themselves, and in a moment a glad "Honk!" sounded in the air, and Grayking himself, black ring and all, stood ruffling his feathers before her. She clasped him in her arms and kissed him again and again. Then calling the rest of the flock by her strange power, she showed them their lost leader restored as good as new.

What a happy flock of geese flew honking away in an even V, with the handsomest, grayest, plumpest goose in all the world at their head! And what an exciting story he had to tell his mates! Surely, no other goose ever lived who could tell how it felt to be made into pie, to be eaten and to have his bones picked clean by a greedy Steward.

This is how Saint Werburgh made lifelong friends.h.i.+p with a flock of big gray geese. And I dare say even now in England one of their descendants may be found with a black ring around his neck, the handsomest, grayest, plumpest goose in all the world. And when he hears the name of Saint Werburgh, which has been handed down to him from grandfather to grandson for twelve hundred years, he will give an especially loud "Honk!" of praise.

Dear Saint Werburgh! One would almost be willing to make a goose of himself if so he might see her again, with all her feathered friends about her.

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 hands 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 s.p.a.ce about the maid With antlered kings was filled.