CHAPTER V

_Tales and Legends_

The derivations of the words _tale_ and _legend_ hold within

themselves several of the features that distinguish the one from

the other. A tale (As. _talu_, speech) means literally that which

is told by oral relation or recital; a legend (L. _legendus_, to

be read) that which is apprehended by the eye and not by the ear.

Originally, then, the tale was an oral recital, though the term was

afterwards applied to narrative whether oral or written, whereas the

legend, which in the history of narrative is later than the tale, was

a written chronicle that in its earliest form recorded the lives of

the saints and was read in monastic houses for spiritual edification.

Like the tale, however, the legend has long since lost its original

meaning, and is now broadly applied to many a story of ancient origin

which possesses an incredible, or seemingly miraculous character.

And yet the tale and the legend possess certain distinguishing

traits as types of narrative which their derivations suggest and

their histories corroborate. Since the tale was an oral recital, the

narrator must, of course, have employed all means in his power to

impress his audience. Events which took place in many and strange

lands, episodes of thrilling adventure, which, although they usually

centered about one character, might be tacked on indefinitely so long

as his audience was interested, humorous situations and escapades

which not infrequently degenerated into horseplay, often illustrated

by grotesque mimicry and pantomime--such were the distinctive

features of the early tale. Nor are those earlier attributes absent

from the more modern tales. In these also there is often no unity of

setting; there are always incredible incidents and episodes which, as

in the case of Mr. James Stevens’s _Paul Bunyon_, center about one

main character; there are frequently features grotesque and humorous.

Even so is the legend, to a large extent, true to its derivation

and early history. Written as it was for a religious assembly, it

centered about the life of some saint whose spirituality it strove

to glorify by the portrayal of some one remarkable incident rather

than by the relation of several. Instead of the marvelous it dealt

with the miraculous; instead of the humorous and grotesque, although

these elements were not always absent, it dealt with romantic fancy;

instead of merely diverting or amusing an audience, it sought to

instruct and edify. And, as with the tale, these earlier features

are easily apparent in the legends of our own time. Here, too, are

the inexplicable, even the seemingly miraculous; here are romantic

fancy and æsthetic charm; and here are often lessons in constancy,

kindness, or heroism.

To the careful student of literary types the history of the tale

and of the legend and the distinguishing features of each afford a

never failing source of interest and pleasure; but to the writer

of narrative such a study must be cursory at best. He must, of

course, recognize the individualizing attributes of the tale and

of the legend; but he must at the same time realize that, although

these attributes are in many cases still distinct, they have in

many other examples merged into one another. For example, in _The

Legend of the Moor’s Legacy_ from Irving’s _Tales of the Alhambra_

(the interchange of the words legend and tale is interesting)

which is more distinctly a tale than a legend, there are evident

the purely æsthetic charm and fancy that characterize a legend;

in Miss Lagerlöf’s beautiful _Legend of the Christmas Rose_, on

the other hand, there are, especially in the conduct of the robber

woman in Abbot Hans’s garden, some features that marked the earlier

tales. Indeed, for practical purposes the words _tale_ and _legend_

may be used almost synonymously by the writer of narrative (as in

point of fact they are in many dictionaries) if he has sufficient

literary judgment to preserve a consistency of tone or a unity of

artistic effect in his own work as he enters into that boundless and

fascinating field--the writing or the expanding into literary form of

old tales and legends.

Nor are these adjectives, it seems to me, ill-chosen. Surely the

field is boundless, stretching from the ancient papyrus tales of

Egypt to the Indian legends of Minnesota and New Mexico. It includes

the traditions sacred to every race and nationality, the stories

which have been handed down in families, the tales and legends which

add charm and personality to certain localities the world over. If

you are of Scandinavian stock, you have a treasure-house in the

thousands of old stories of valor and endurance which have been told

for centuries by Norse grandmothers to their grandchildren during the

long northern winters; if you are of Irish blood, what mysterious and

miraculous legends of the earliest Christian centuries await you! It

is strange if there are not in your own family tales which have never

been put in writing, and stranger if in your own town and county

there is not some legend which contains within itself romantic charm

enough to justify its telling.

It is a fascinating as well as a boundless field of writing. In the

first place, it contains all the charm that lies in the old, the

mysterious, the romantic, the sacred, the poetic, the valorous--words

which lure one by their sound as well as by their connotations. Then

there is fascination in the fact that the material lies ready for

your workmanship. If you do not know a tale or a legend which is

connected with your own family or locality, you have only to go upon

a short journey of discovery to find literally hundreds. Perhaps the

richest treasure-house is the various collections of the Miracles of

Our Lady, those current legends of the Middle Ages which centered

about the Virgin Mary and from which Anatole France drew his _Juggler

to Our Lady_, or the many volumes which tell briefly the lives of the

saints. If those do not appeal to you, however, there are scores of

marvelous tales and legends of various peoples--Turkish, Egyptian,

Indian, Russian, Norse. Lastly, and most important of all, there is

fascination in the methods employed in the writing of these tales and

legends, in the various ways by which you may gain pictorial charm

and artistic effects.

From a careful study of the models given in the pages that follow you

will note certain outstanding characteristics for which you should

strive in your own work:

1. A tendency to plunge at once into the story.

There is no expository material and singularly little introduction

in the models given. Instead, you are taken into the situation

almost with the first sentence: “Once, when Jesus was only five

years old, he sat on the doorstep outside his father’s workshop,

in Nazareth, and made clay cuckoos from a lump of clay which the

potter across the way had given him.” “In the time of King Louis,

there lived in France a poor juggler, native of Compiègne, named

Barnabas, who went among the villagers doing feats of strength and

skill.”

2. A clear and, for the most part, simple narrative style, which

proceeds directly to the one major incident to be related and

allows few digressions.

3. An emphasis on the concrete.

This is well illustrated in _The Legend of the Christmas Rose_ in

the minute details which describe the awakening of the forest; in

the description from _The Song of the Minister_ of the wondrous _Te

Deum_ sung by the stone images in the cathedral; and in the “six

copper balls” and the “twelve knives” of Barnabas, the juggler.

4. The use of figures.

The clay cuckoos of Jesus in Miss Lagerlöf’s _In Nazareth_ are “as

smooth and even as the oak leaves in the forests on Mt. Tabor”; in

Göinge forest “the leaves dropped from the trees, rustling like

rain.”

5. A delight in color and in the sound of unusual proper names.

This two-fold feature is apparent in all the selections.

M. E. C.

IN NAZARETH

SELMA LAGERLÖF

Once, when Jesus was only five years old, he sat on the doorstep

outside his father’s workshop, in Nazareth, and made clay cuckoos

from a lump of clay which the potter across the way had given him.

He was happier than usual. All the children in the quarter had told

Jesus that the potter was a disobliging man, who wouldn’t let himself

be coaxed, either by soft glances or honeyed words, and he had never

dared ask aught of him. But, you see, he hardly knew how it had come

about. He had only stood on his doorstep and, with yearning eyes,

looked upon the neighbor working at his molds, and then that neighbor

had come over from his stall and given him so much clay that it would

have been enough to finish a whole wine jug.

On the stoop of the next house sat Judas, his face covered with

bruises and his clothes full of rents, which he had acquired during

his continual fights with street urchins. For the moment he was

quiet, he neither quarreled nor fought, but worked with a bit of

clay, just as Jesus did. But this clay he had not been able to

procure for himself. He hardly dared venture within sight of the

potter, who complained that he was in the habit of throwing stones

at his fragile wares, and would have driven him away with a good

beating. It was Jesus who had divided his portion with him.

When the two children had finished their clay cuckoos, they stood

the birds up in a ring in front of them. These looked just as clay

cuckoos have always looked. They had big, round lumps to stand on in

place of feet, short tails, no necks, and almost imperceptible wings.

But, at all events, one saw at once a difference in the work of the

little playmates. Judas’ birds were so crooked that they tumbled over

continually; and no matter how hard he worked with his clumsy little

fingers, he couldn’t get their bodies neat and well formed. Now and

then he glanced slyly at Jesus, to see how he managed to make his

birds as smooth and even as the oak-leaves in the forests on Mount

Tabor.

As bird after bird was finished, Jesus became happier and happier.

Each looked more beautiful to him than the last, and he regarded them

all with pride and affection. They were to be his playmates, his

little brothers; they should sleep in his bed, keep him company, and

sing to him when his mother left him. Never before had he thought

himself so rich; never again could he feel alone or forsaken.

The big, brawny water-carrier came walking along, and right after him

came the huckster, who sat joggingly on his donkey between the large

empty willow baskets. The water-carrier laid his hand on Jesus’ curly

head and asked him about his birds; and Jesus told him that they had

names and that they could sing. All the little birds were come to him

from foreign lands, and told him things which only he and they knew.

And Jesus spoke in such a way that both the water-carrier and the

huckster forgot about their tasks for a full hour, to listen to him.

But when they wished to go farther, Jesus pointed to Judas. “See what

pretty birds Judas makes!” he said.

Then the huckster good-naturedly stopped his donkey and asked Judas

if his birds also had names and could sing. But Judas knew nothing of

this. He was stubbornly silent and did not raise his eyes from his

work, and the huckster angrily kicked one of his birds and rode on.

In this manner the afternoon passed, and the sun sank so far down

that its beams could come in through the low city gate, which stood

at the end of the street and was decorated with a Roman Eagle.

This sunshine, which came at the close of the day, was perfectly

rose-red--as if it had become mixed with blood--and it colored

everything which came in its path, as it filtered through the narrow

street. It painted the potter’s vessels as well as the log which

creaked under the woodman’s saw, and the white veil that covered

Mary’s face.

But the loveliest of all was the sun’s reflection as it shone on the

little water-puddles which had gathered in the big, uneven cracks

in the stones that covered the street. Suddenly Jesus stuck his hand

in the puddle nearest him. He had conceived the idea that he would

paint his gray birds with the sparkling sunbeams which had given such

pretty color to the water, the house-walls, and everything around him.

The sunshine took pleasure in letting itself be captured by him,

like paint in a paint pot; and when Jesus spread it over the little

clay birds, it lay still and bedecked them from head to foot with a

diamond-like luster.

Judas, who every now and then looked at Jesus to see if he made more

and prettier birds than his, gave a shriek of delight when he saw how

Jesus painted his clay cuckoos with the sunshine, which he caught

from the water pools. Judas also dipped his hand in the shining water

and tried to catch the sunshine.

But the sunshine wouldn’t be caught by him. It slipped through his

fingers; and no matter how fast he tried to move his hands to get

hold of it, it got away, and he couldn’t procure a pinch of color for

his poor birds.

“Wait, Judas!” cried Jesus. “I’ll come and paint your birds.”

“No, you shan’t touch them!” cried Judas. “They’re good enough as

they are.”

He rose, his eyebrows contracted into an ugly frown, his lips

compressed. And he put his broad foot on the birds and transformed

them, one after another, into little flat pieces of clay.

When all his birds were destroyed, he walked over to Jesus, who sat

and caressed his birds--that glittered like jewels. Judas regarded

them for a moment in silence, then he raised his foot and crushed one

of them.

When Judas took his foot away and saw the entire little bird changed

into a cake of clay, he felt so relieved that he began to laugh, and

raised his foot to crush another.

“Judas,” said Jesus, “what are you doing? Don’t you see that they are

alive and can sing?”

But Judas laughed and crushed still another bird.

Jesus looked around for help. Judas was heavily built and Jesus had

not the strength to hold him back. He glanced around for his mother.

She was not far away, but before she could have gone there, Judas

would have had ample time to destroy the birds. The tears sprang to

Jesus’ eyes. Judas had already crushed four of his birds. There were

only three left.

He was annoyed with his birds, who stood so calmly and let themselves

be trampled upon without paying the slightest attention to the

danger. Jesus clapped his hands to awaken them; then he shouted:

“Fly, fly!”

Then the three birds began to move their tiny wings, and, fluttering

anxiously, they succeeded in swinging themselves up to the eaves of

the house, where they were safe.

But when Judas saw that the birds took to their wings and flew at

Jesus’ command, he began to weep. He tore his hair, as he had seen

his elders do when they were in great trouble, and he threw himself

at Jesus’ feet.

Judas lay there and rolled in the dust before Jesus like a dog, and

kissed his feet and begged that he would raise his foot and crush

him, as he had done with the clay cuckoos. For Judas loved Jesus and

admired and worshiped him, and at the same time hated him.

Mary, who sat all the while and watched the children’s play, came up

and lifted Judas in her arms and seated him on her lap, and caressed

him.

“You poor child!” she said to him, “you do not know that you have

attempted something which no mortal can accomplish. Don’t engage

in anything of this kind again, if you do not wish to become the

unhappiest of mortals! What would happen to any one of us who

undertook to compete with one who paints with sunbeams and blows the

breath of life into dead clay?”

Selma Lagerlöf, _Christ Legends_. By permission

of the publishers, Henry Holt and Company.

THE SONG OF THE MINSTER

WILLIAM CANTON

When John of Fulda became Prior of Hethholme, says the old

chronicle, he brought with him to the Abbey many rare and costly

books--beautiful illuminated missals and psalters and portions of

the Old and New Testament. And he presented rich vestments to the

Minster; albs of fine linen, and copes embroidered with flowers of

gold. In the west front he built two great arched windows filled with

marvellous storied glass. The shrine of St. Egwin he repaired at vast

outlay, adorning it with garlands in gold and silver, but the colour

of the flowers was in coloured gems, and in like fashion the little

birds in the nooks of the foliage. Stalls and benches of carved oak

he placed in the choir; and many other noble works he had wrought in

his zeal for the glory of God’s house.

In all the western land was there no more fair or stately Minster

than this of the Black Monks, with the peaceful township on one side,

and on the other the sweet meadows and the acres of wheat and barley

sloping down to the slow river, and beyond the river the clearings in

the ancient forest.

But Thomas the Sub-prior was grieved and troubled in his mind by the

richness and the beauty of all he saw about him, and by the Prior’s

eagerness to be ever adding some new work in stone, or oak, or metal,

or jewels.

“Surely,” he said to himself, “these things are unprofitable--less

to the honour of God than to the pleasure of the eye and the pride

of life and the luxury of our house! Had so much treasure not been

wasted on these vanities of bright colour and carved stone, our dole

to the poor of Christ might have been fourfold, and they filled with

good things. But now let our almoner do what best he may, I doubt not

many a leper sleeps cold, and many a poor man goes lean with hunger.”

This the Sub-prior said, not because his heart was quick with

fellowship for the poor, but because he was of a narrow and gloomy

and grudging nature, and he could conceive of no true service of God

which was not one of fasting and praying, of fear and trembling, of

joylessness and mortification.

Now you must know that the greatest of the monks and the hermits and

the holy men were not of this kind. In their love of God they were

blithe of heart, and filled with a rare sweetness and tranquillity of

soul, and they looked on the goodly earth with deep joy, and they had

a tender care for the wild creatures of wood and water. But Thomas

had yet much to learn of the beauty of holiness.

Often in the bleak dark hours of the night he would leave his cell

and steal into the Minster, to fling himself on the cold stones

before the high altar; and there he would remain, shivering and

praying, till his strength failed him.

It happened one winter night, when the thoughts I have spoken of

had grown very bitter in his mind, Thomas guided his steps by the

glimmer of the sanctuary lamp to his accustomed place in the choir.

Falling on his knees, he laid himself on his face with the palms of

his outstretched hands flat on the icy pavement. And as he lay there,

taking a cruel joy in the freezing cold and the torture of his body,

he became gradually aware of a sound of far-away yet most heavenly

music.

He raised himself to his knees to listen, and to his amazement he

perceived that the whole Minster was pervaded by a faint, mysterious

light, which was every instant growing brighter and clearer. And as

the light increased the music grew louder and sweeter, and he knew

that it was within the sacred walls. But it was no mortal minstrelsy.

The strains he heard were the minglings of angelic instruments,

and the cadences of voices of unearthly loveliness. They seemed to

proceed from the choir about him, and from the nave and transept

and aisles; from the pictured windows and from the clerestory and

from the vaulted roofs. Under his knees he felt that the crypt was

throbbing and droning like a huge organ.

Sometimes the song came from one part of the Minster, and then all

the rest of the vast building was silent; then the music was taken

up, as it were in response, in another part; and yet again voices and

instruments would blend in one indescribable volume of harmony, which

made the huge pile thrill and vibrate from roof to pavement.

As Thomas listened, his eyes became accustomed to the celestial light

which encompassed him, and he saw--he could scarce credit his senses

that he saw--the little carved angels of the oak stalls in the choir

clashing their cymbals and playing their psalteries.

He rose to his feet, bewildered and half terrified. At that moment

the mighty roll of unison ceased, and from many parts of the church

there came a concord of clear high voices, like a warbling of silver

trumpets, and Thomas heard the words they sang. And the words were

these----

_Tibi omnes Angeli._

To Thee all Angels cry aloud.

So close to him were two of these voices that Thomas

looked up to the spandrels in the choir, and he saw that it was the

carved angels leaning out of the spandrels that were singing. And as

they sang the breath came from their stone lips white and vaporous in

the frosty air.

He trembled with awe and astonishment, but the wonder of what was

happening drew him towards the altar. The beautiful tabernacle work

of the altar screen contained a double range of niches filled with

the statues of saints and kings; and these, he saw, were singing. He

passed slowly onward with his arms outstretched, like a blind man who

does not know the way he is treading.

The figures on the painted glass of the lancets were singing.

The winged heads of the baby angels over the marble memorial slabs

were singing.

The lions and griffons and mythical beasts of the finials were

singing.

The effigies of dead abbots and priors were singing on their tombs in

bay and chantry.

The figures in the frescoes on the walls were singing.

On the painted ceiling westward of the tower the verses of the Te

Deum, inscribed in letters of gold above the shields of kings and

princes and barons, were visible in the divine light, and the very

words of these verses were singing, like living things.

And the breath of all these as they sang turned to a smoke as of

incense in the wintry air, and floated about the high pillars of the

Minster.

Suddenly the music ceased, all save the deep organ-drone.

Then Thomas heard the marvellous antiphon repeated in the bitter

darkness outside; and that music, he knew, must be the response

of the galleries of stone kings and queens, of abbots and virgin

martyrs, over the western portals, and of the monstrous gargoyles

along the eaves.

When the music ceased in the outer darkness, it was taken up again in

the interior of the Minster.

At last there came one stupendous united cry of all the singers, and

in that cry even the organ-drone of the crypt, and the clamour of the

brute stones of pavement and pillar, of wall and roof, broke into

words articulate. And the words were these:

_Per singulos dies, benedicimus Te._

Day by day: we magnify Thee,

And we worship Thy name: ever world without end.

As the wind of the summer changes into the sorrowful wail of the

yellowing woods, so the strains of joyous worship changed into a wail

of supplication; and as he caught the words, Thomas too raised his

voice in wild entreaty:

_Miserere nostri, Domine, miserere nostri._

O Lord, have mercy upon us: have mercy upon us.

And then his senses failed him, and he sank to the

ground in a long swoon.

When he came to himself all was still, and all was dark save for the

little yellow flower of light in the sanctuary lamp.

As he crept back to his cell, he saw with unsealed eyes how

churlishly he had grudged God the glory of man’s genius and the

service of His dumb creatures, the metal of the hills, and the stone

of the quarry, and the timber of the forest; for now he knew that at

all seasons, and whether men heard the music or not, the ear of God

was filled by day and by night with an everlasting song from each

stone of the vast Minster:

We magnify Thee,

And we worship Thy name: ever world without end.

By permission, from William Canton, _A Child’s

Book of Saints_. Copyright by E. P. Dutton &

Company.

JUGGLER TO OUR-LADY

ANATOLE FRANCE

I

In the time of King Louis, there lived in France a poor juggler,

native of Compiègne, named Barnabas, who went among the villages

doing feats of strength and skill. On market days he would spread out

on the public square an old carpet very much worn, and, after having

attracted the children and the gazing bumpkins by some suitable

pleasantries which he had adopted from an old juggler and which he

never changed at all, he would assume grotesque attitudes and balance

a plate on his nose.

The crowd at first looked at him with indifference. But when,

standing on his hands with his head downward, he tossed in the air

six copper balls which glittered in the sun, and caught them again

with his feet; or when, by bending backward until his neck touched

his heels, he gave his body the form of a perfect wheel, and in that

posture juggled with twelve knives, a murmur of admiration rose from

the onlookers, and pieces of money rained upon the carpet.

However, like the majority of those who live by their talents,

Barnabas of Compiègne had much difficulty in living. Earning his

bread by the sweat of his brow, he bore more than his part of the

miseries connected with the fall of Adam, our father. Moreover, he

was unable to work as much as he would have wished. In order to show

off his fine accomplishment, he needed the warmth of the sun and the

light of day, just as do the trees in order to produce their blossoms

and fruits.

In winter he was nothing more than a tree despoiled of its foliage

and to appearance dead. The frozen earth was hard for the juggler.

And, like the grasshopper of which Marie of France tells, he suffered

from cold and from hunger in the bad season. But, since he possessed

a simple heart, he bore his ills in patience.

He had never reflected upon the origin of riches, nor upon the

inequality of human conditions. He believed firmly that, if

this world is evil, the other cannot fail to be good, and this

hope sustained him. He did not imitate the thieving mountebanks

and miscreants who have sold their souls to the devil. He never

blasphemed the name of God; he lived honestly, and, although he had

no wife, he did not covet his neighbor’s, for woman is the enemy of

strong men, as appears from the history of Samson, which is reported

in the Scriptures.

In truth, he had not a spirit which turned to carnal desires, and it

would have cost him more to renounce the jugs than the women. For,

although without failing in sobriety, he loved to drink when it was

warm. He was a good man, fearing God and very devout toward the Holy

Virgin. He never failed, when he entered a church, to kneel before

the image of the Mother of God and address to her this prayer:

“Madame, take care of my life until it may please God that I die, and

when I am dead, cause me to have the joys of paradise.”

II

Well, then, on a certain evening after a day of rain, while he was

walking, sad and bent, carrying under his arm his balls and knives

wrapped up in his old carpet, and seeking for some barn in which

he might lie down supperless, he saw on the road a monk who was

travelling the same way, and saluted him decorously. As they were

walking at an equal pace, they began to exchange remarks.

“Comrade,” said the monk, “how comes it that you are habited all in

green? Is it not for the purpose of taking the character of a fool in

some mystery-play?”

“Not for that purpose, father,” responded Barnabas. “Such as you see

me, I am named Barnabas, and I am by calling a juggler. It would be

the most beautiful occupation in the world if one could eat every

day.”

“Friend Barnabas,” replied the monk, “take care what you say. There

is no more beautiful calling than the monastic state. Therein one

celebrates the praises of God, the Virgin, and the saints, and the

life of a monk is a perpetual canticle to the Lord.”

Barnabas answered:

“Father, I confess that I have spoken like an ignoramus. Your calling

may not be compared with mine, and, although there is some merit in

dancing while holding on the tip of the nose a coin balanced on a

stick, this merit does not approach yours. I should like very well

to sing every day, as you do, Father, the office of the most Holy

Virgin, to whom I have vowed a particular devotion. I would right

willingly renounce my calling, in which I am known from Soissons to

Beauvais, in more than six hundred towns and villages, in order to

embrace the monastic life.”

The monk was touched by the simplicity of the juggler, and, as he

did not lack discernment, he recognized in Barnabas one of those men

of good purpose whereof our Lord said: “Let peace abide with them on

earth!” This is why he replied to him:

“Friend Barnabas, come with me, and I will enable you to enter the

monastery of which I am the prior. He who conducted Mary the Egyptian

through the desert has placed me on your path to lead you in the way

of salvation.”

This is how Barnabas became a monk.

In the monastery where he was received, the brethren emulously

solemnized the cult of the Holy Virgin, and each one employed in her

service all the knowledge and all the ability which God had given him.

The prior, for his part, composed books which, according to the rules

of scholasticism, treated of the virtues of the Mother of God.

Friar Maurice with a learned hand copied these dissertations on

leaves of vellum.

Friar Alexander painted fine miniatures, wherein one could see the

Queen of Heaven seated upon the throne of Solomon, at the foot of

which four lions kept vigil. Around her haloed head fluttered seven

doves, which are the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit: gifts of fear,

piety, science, might, counsel, intelligence, and wisdom. She had for

companions six golden-haired Virgins: Humility, Prudence, Retirement,

Respect, Virginity, and Obedience. At her feet two small figures,

nude and quite white, were standing in a suppliant attitude. They

were souls who implored her all-powerful intercession for their

salvation--and certainly not in vain.

On another page Friar Alexander represented Eve gazing upon Mary, so

that thus one might see at the same time the sin and the redemption,

the woman humiliated and the Virgin exalted. Furthermore, in this

book one might admire the Well of Living Waters, the Fountain, the

Lily, the Moon, the Sun, and the closed Garden which is spoken of in

the Canticle, the Gate of Heaven and the Seat of God, and there were

also several images of the Virgin.

Friar Marbode was, similarly, one of the most affectionate children

of Mary. He carved images in stone without ceasing, so that his

beard, his eyebrows, and his hair were white with dust, and his eyes

were perpetually swollen and tearful; but he was full of strength

and joy in his advanced age, and, visibly, the Queen of Paradise

protected the old age of her child. Marbode represented her seated on

a bishop’s throne, her brow encircled by a nimbus whose orb was of

pearls, and he took pains that the folds of her robe should cover the

feet of one of whom the prophet said: “My beloved is like a closed

garden.”

At times, also, he gave her the features of a child full of grace,

and she seemed to say: “Lord, thou art my Lord!”--“Dixi de ventre

matris meae: Deus meus es tu.” (Psalm 21, II.)

They had also in the monastery several poets, who composed, in Latin,

both prose and hymns in honor of the most happy Virgin Mary, and

there was even found one Picardian who set forth the miracles of Our

Lady in ordinary language and in rhymed verses.

III

Seeing such a concourse of praises and such a beautiful in-gathering

of works, Barnabas lamented to himself his ignorance and his

simplicity.

“Alas!” he sighed as he walked along in the little garden of the

convent, “I am very unfortunate not to be able, like my brothers, to

praise worthily the Holy Mother of God to whom I have pledged the

tenderness of my heart. Alas! Alas! I am a rude and artless man,

and I have for your service, Madam the Virgin, neither edifying

sermons, nor tracts properly divided according to the rules, nor fine

paintings, nor statues exactly sculptured, nor verses counted by feet

and marching in measure. I have nothing, alas!”

He moaned in this manner and abandoned himself to sadness.

One night that the monks were recreating by conversing, he heard

one of them relate the history of a religious who did not know how

to recite anything but the _Ave Maria_. This monk was disdained for

his ignorance; but, having died, there came forth from his lips five

roses in honor of the five letters in the name of _Maria_, and his

sanctity was thus manifested.

While listening to this recital Barnabas admired once again the

bounty of the Virgin; but he was not consoled by the example of that

happy death, for his heart was full of zeal, and he desired to serve

the glory of his Lady who was in Heaven. He sought the means without

being able to find them, and every day he grieved the more.

One morning, however, having awakened full of joy, he ran to the

chapel and stayed there alone for more than an hour. He returned

there after dinner. And beginning from that moment he went every day

into the chapel at the hour when it was deserted, and there he passed

a large part of the time which the other monks consecrated to the

liberal and the mechanical arts. No more was he sad and no longer did

he complain.

A conduct so singular aroused the curiosity of the monks. They asked

themselves in the community why Friar Barnabas made his retreats so

frequent.

The Prior, whose duty it is to ignore nothing in the conduct of his

monks, resolved to observe Barnabas during his solitudes. One day

that he was closeted in the chapel as his custom was, Dom Prior went,

accompanied by two elders of the monastery, to observe through the

windows of the door what was going on in the interior.

They saw Barnabas, who--before the altar of the Holy Virgin, head

downward, feet in air--was juggling with six brass balls and twelve

knives. He was doing in honor of the Holy Mother of God the feats

which had brought to him the most applause. Not comprehending that

this simple man was thus placing his talent and his knowledge at the

service of the Holy Virgin, the two elders cried out at the sacrilege.

The Prior understood that Barnabas had an innocent heart; but he

thought that he had fallen into dementia. All three were preparing

to drag him vigorously from the chapel when they saw the Holy Virgin

descend the steps of the altar in order to wipe with a fold of her

blue mantle the sweat which burst from the brow of her juggler.

Then the Prior, prostrating his face against the marble slabs,

recited these words:

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God!”

“Amen,” responded the elders as they kissed the earth.

Anatole France. From J. Berg Esenwein,

_Short-Story Masterpieces_ (Volume II--French.)

By permission of Mr. Esenwein, the translator.

Copyright.

PAUL BUNYON

JAMES STEVENS

Paul Bunyon was the one historian of the useful and the beautiful;

other writers of history tell only of terrible and dramatic events.

Therefore the chronicles of Paul Bunyon, the mighty logger, the

inventor of the lumber industry, the leader-hero of the best band

of bullies, the finest bunch of savages, that ever tramped the

continent, the master orator of a land that has since grown forests

of orators--his chronicles alone tell of the Winter of the Blue Snow.

The blue snow fell first in the north. It fell scantily in its

earlier hours, its sapphire flakes floating down on the waves of a

mild winter wind, and glittering in an ashen gold light, a sober

pale radiance which shimmered through silver mists. There was poetry

in the spectacle of these hours. And then the hard gray ground of

a peopleless land was hidden under a blanket of dark blue. And the

nameless frozen lakes and rivers, the silent valleys and the windy

hills of the country were all spread over with a sky-dyed snow. When

the last light of this day went out, the boughs of the great pines

were creaking under heavy wet masses of snow like torn bales of blue

cotton. There was a rush in the snowfall now, as a fiercer wind

whipped it on; its heavy flakes were driven down in thick, whirling

clusters, in streaming veils, leaping lines and dashing columns; and

there were cloudlike swarms of the blue flakes, which settled slowly,

floating easily in the hard wind. This wind got so strong that it

shivered the timber, and the piles of blue snow which had gathered on

the pine boughs were shaken down. Most of this snow fell into blue

mounds around the trees, but some of it fell on the fauna of the

forest, adding to their troublement.

At the time of the Winter of the Blue Snow, the forest creatures of

this land lived a free and easy life. Man was not there to embarrass

them with accusations of trespass and to slay them for their

ignorance of the crime. Their main problem was the overcrowding of

the forests. The vast moose herds, who populated the woods so densely

that traffic through their favorite timber was dangerous, made the

matter of getting food a simple one for the carnivorous animals.

There were many moose to spare, and the elders of the herds, like

most prolific parents, never became frantically resentful over the

loss of an offspring. The moose themselves, of course, lived easily

on the crisp, juicy moose grass which grew so plenteously in these

regions before the blue snow. So the carnivorous creatures of the

forests lived a fast and furious life; and it is certain that if

they were capable of praise, they had good praises for the moose

meat which they got with such little difficulty. The coal-black

bruins of the North were an especially happy crowd. Theirs was a gay,

frolicsome life in the summer time, when the big bruins danced and

galloped through sunny valleys and the small ones had rolling races

on shady hillsides. In the fall, all fat and drowsy from moose meat,

the bruins would go to sleep in their warm caves and dream pleasantly

all winter.

They were all dreaming now; and the blue snow would no doubt have

fallen and melted away without their knowledge had it not been for

the moose herds which crowded the forest aisles. Moose at that time

did not have it in them to enjoy wonder, and they had not learned

to combat fear, for they were never afraid. Still, they had some

imagination, and the moose trembled when the first blue snowflakes

fell among them. They kept up an appearance of unconcern at first,

eating moose moss as usual; but they sniffed gingerly at the blue

streaks in it, and they stole furtive glances at each other as they

bravely ate. This strange snowfall was certainly breeding fear of it

in the hearts of all the moose, but each one seemed determined to be

the last one to show it. However, as the day-end got near, and the

wind grew more boisterous, shaking snow masses from the trees, some

of the moose had fits of trembling and eye-rolling which they could

not conceal. When a heap of snow dropped on the back of some timid

moose, he would twist his head sharply and stare with bulging eyes at

the mysteriously fearsome color, then he would prance wildly until

the unwelcome snow was bucked from his shivering back. When the early

shadows of evening came among the trees, the moose all had a heavy

darkness of fear in their hearts. Little was needed to put them in a

panic.

It was a great bull moose, a herd king, who forgot the example he

owed to his weaker kindred and unloosed a thunderous bellow of terror

which started the moose flight, the first memorable incident of the

Winter of the Blue Snow. An overladen bough cracked above him; it

fell and straddled him from quivering tail to flailing horns, burying

him under its wet blue load. He reared out roaring, and his own

herd echoed the cry; then a storm of moose bellows crashed through

the forest. This tumult died, but there followed the earth-shaking

thunder of a stampede.

The bruins, awakened from their pleasant dreams, came out from

their caves and blinked at the hosts of terrified moose which were

galloping past. The earth-shaking uproar of the flight at last

thoroughly aroused the bruins, and they began to sniff the air

uneasily. Then they noticed the blue snow; and now in front of every

cave crowds of bruins were staring down at the snow, and each bruin

was swaying heavily, lifting his left front foot as he swayed to the

right, and lifting his right front foot as he swayed to the left.

The bruins had no courage either, and, once they had got sleep out

of their heads, nearly all of them took out after the moose herds.

The wind roared louder with every passing minute this night. And the

flakes of the blue snow were as dense as the particles of a fog. At

dawn a blue blizzard was raging. But the fauna of the forest plunged

tirelessly on, seeking a refuge of white snow.

And Niagara, made faithless by the Blue Terror, galloped behind

them--Niagara, the great moose hound, bread-winner for the student of

history, Paul Bunyon (his real name), and his companion also.

Paul Bunyon lived at Tonnere Bay. He dwelt in a cave that was as

large as ten Mammoth Caves and which had a roof loftier than any

tower or spire. But this cave was none too vast for Paul Bunyon, the

one man of this region, but one man as great as a city of ordinary

men. His tarpaulins and blankets covered one-fourth of the cave

floor; his hunting clothes, traps and seines filled another quarter;

and the rest of the space was occupied by a fireplace and his papers

and books.

For Paul Bunyon was a student now. There had been a time when he had

gone forth in the hunting and fishing season to gather the huge

supplies of provender which he required, but now his days and nights

were all spent with his books. Paul Bunyon’s favorite food was raw

moose meat, and after he found Niagara in the Tall Wolf country he

no longer needed to hunt. Each night Niagara trotted out in the

darkness and satisfied his own hunger, then he carried mouthfuls of

moose to the cave until he had a day’s supply of meat for his master.

Niagara was ever careful not to frighten the moose herds; he hunted

stealthily and with quiet. The moose at night were only conscious

of a dark cloud looming over them, then numbers of the herds would

disappear, without painful sound. The moose, if they had thought

about it, would have been only thankful to Niagara for lessening the

congestion of the forests.

So Paul Bunyon fared well on the moose meat which Niagara brought

him, and he lived contentedly as a student in his cave at Tonnere

Bay. Each day he studied, and far into the night he figured. Taking

a trimmed pine tree for a pencil, he would char its end in the fire

and use the cave floor for a slate. He was not long in learning all

the history worth knowing, and he became as good a figure as any man

could be.

Vague ambitions began to stir in his soul after this and he often

deserted his studies to dream about them. He knew he would not spend

his days forever in the cave at Tonnere Bay. Somewhere in the future

a great Work was waiting to be done by him. Now it was only a dream;

but he was sure that it would be a reality; and he came to think more

and more about it. The books were opened less and less; the pine

tree pencil was seldom brought from its corner. Paul Bunyon now used

another pine tree which still had its boughs; it was a young one, and

he brushed his curly black beard with it as he dreamed. But he was

still a contented man at the time of the Winter of the Blue Snow,

for his dreams had not yet blazed up in a desire for any certain

attainment.

On the first day of the blue snow, Paul Bunyon was in a particularly

contented mood. He sat all that day before his fire; so charmed with

drowsy thoughts was he that he did not once look out. It had been

dark a long time before he rolled into his blankets. He awoke at the

dawn of a day that had scarcely more light than the night. He was

cold, and he got up to throw an armful of trees on the fire. Then he

saw the blue drifts which had piled up before the cave, and he saw

the fog of the blue blizzard. He heard the roar of a terrific wind,

too, and he knew that the storm was perilous as well as strange. But

Paul Bunyon thought gladly of the blue snow, for it was a beautiful

event, and the historians he liked most would write wonderful books

about it.

He kicked the drifts away from the cave entrance, but the usual

pile of slain moose was not under them. Paul Bunyon was a little

worried, as he thought that Niagara might have lost himself in the

blue blizzard. The possibility that the unnatural color of the storm

might send the fauna of the forest, and Niagara as well, into panicky

flight did not occur to him. He was sure that Niagara would return

with a grand supply of moose meat when the blue blizzard had passed.

But the moose herds were now far to the North, fleeing blindly from

the blue snow. The bruins galloped after them. Before the day was

over, Niagara had overtaken the bruins and was gaining on the moose.

At nightfall his lunging strides had carried him far ahead of all

the fauna of the forest. He galloped yet faster as he reached the

blacker darkness of the Arctic winter. Now the darkness was so heavy

that even his powerful eyes could not see in it ... Niagara at last

ran head-on into the North pole; the terrific speed at which he was

traveling threw his body whirling high in the air; when Niagara fell

he crashed through ninety feet of ice, and the polar fields cracked

explosively as his struggles convulsed the waters under them.... Then

only mournful blasts of wind sounded in the night of the Farthest

North.

The moose were wearied out before they reached the white Arctic, and

hordes of them fell and perished in the blizzard; many others died

from fright, and only a tiny remnant of the great herds survived.

Some of the bruins reached the polar fields, and they have lived

there since. Their hair had turned white from fright, and their

descendants still wear that mark of fear. Others were not frightened

so much, and their hair only turned gray. They did not run out of the

timber, and their descendants, the silver-tip grizzlies, still live

in the Northern woods. The baby bruins were only scared out of their

growth, and their black descendants now grow no larger than the cubs

of Paul Bunyon’s time.

Being ignorant of this disaster, Paul Bunyon was comfortable enough

while the blizzard lasted. He had a good store of trees on hand and

his cave was warm in the storm. He got hungry in the last days; but

this emotion, or any emotion, for that matter, could have but little

power over him when he was dreaming. And he dreamed deeply now of

great enterprises; his dreams were formless without any substance

of reality; but they had brilliant colors, and they made him very

hopeful.

The sun shone at last from a whitish blue sky, and the strange snow

fell no more. A snapping cold was in the land; and pine boughs were

bangled and brocaded with glittering blue crystals, and crusty blue

snow crackled underfoot.

Paul Bunyon strapped on his snow shoes and started out through the

Border forests in search of Niagara. His was a kingly figure as he

mushed through the pine trees, looming above all but the very tallest

of them. He wore a wine-red hunting cap, and his glossy hair and

beard shone under it with a blackness that blended with the cap’s

color perfectly. His unique eyebrows were black also; covering a

fourth of his forehead above the eyes, they narrowed where they

arched down under his temples, and they ended in thin curls just

in front of his ears. His mustache had natural twirls and he never

disturbed it. He wore a yellow muffler this morning under his virile

curly beard. His mackinaw coat was of huge orange and purple checks.

His mackinaw pants were sober-seeming, having tan and light gray

checks, but some small crimson dots and crosses brightened them.

Green wool socks showed above his black boots, which had buckskin

laces and big brass eyelets and hooks. And he wore striped mittens of

white and plum color. Paul Bunyon was a gorgeous picture this morning

in the frozen fields and forests, all covered with blue snow which

sparkled in a pale gold light.

That day and the next, and for five more days, he searched in vain

for Niagara; and neither did he see any moose herds in the woods.

Only the frost crackles broke the silences of the deserted blue

forests. And at last Paul Bunyon returned to his cave, feeling

depressed and lonely. He had not thought that the companionship of

Niagara could mean so much to him. In his mood of depression he

forgot his hunger and made no further effort to find food.

Lonely Paul Bunyon lay sleepless in his blankets this night, his

eyes gleaming through hedgelike eye-lashes as their gaze restlessly

followed the red flares that shot from the fire and streaked the

walls and roof of the cave. He did not realize that his first

creative idea was now struggling for birth. He could yet feel no

shape of it. He was only conscious of an unaccustomed turmoil of

mind. Wearied with fruitless thought, he at last fell into a doze.

But Paul Bunyon was not fated to sleep this night. A sustained

crashing roar, as of the splintering of millions of timbers, brought

him up suddenly; it was hushed for a short second; then a thudding

boom sounded from Tonnere Bay. Paul Bunyon leaped to the cave door,

and in the moonlight he saw a white wave of water rolling over the

blue beach. It came near to the cave before it stopped and receded.

He pulled on his boots, and two strides brought him down to the bay.

It had been covered with ice seven feet thick, and the cakes of this

broken ice were now tossing on heaving waters. Now Paul Bunyon saw

two ears show sometimes above the billows; they were of the shape of

moose ears, but enormous as his two forefingers. Paul Bunyon waded

out into the waters, and he reached these ears a mile from shore. He

seized them without fear and he lifted ... now a head with closed

eyes appeared ... shoulders and forelegs ... body and hips ... rear

legs and curled tail. It was a calf, newborn apparently, though it

was of such a size that Paul Bunyon had to use both arms to carry it.

“_Nom d’un nom!_” exclaimed Paul Bunyon. “_Pauvre petite bleue bête!_”

For this great baby calf was of a bright blue hue which was neither

darker nor lighter than the color of the beautiful strange snow. A

blue baby ox calf. For such was its sex. Its ears drooped pitifully,

and its scrawny, big-jointed legs hung limply below Paul Bunyon’s

arms. A spasmodic shiver ran from its head to its tail, and its

savior was glad to feel this shiver, for it showed that life

remained. Paul Bunyon was touched with a tenderness that drove out

his loneliness. “_Ma bête_,” he said. “_Mon cher bleu bébé ausha._”

He turned back through the waters, and the ice cakes pounded each

other into bits as they rolled together in his wake. In thirty

seconds Paul Bunyon was back in his cave. He spread out his blankets

in front of the fire, and he laid Bébé upon them.

Through the night Paul Bunyon worked over the blue ox calf, nursing

him back to warm life; and in the morning Bébé was breathing

regularly and seemed to rest. Paul Bunyon leaned over to hear his

exhalations, and the blue ox calf suddenly opened his mouth and

caressed Paul Bunyon’s neck with his tongue. Paul Bunyon then

discovered that he was ticklish in this region, for the caress

impelled him to roll and laugh. The serious student Paul Bunyon had

never laughed before; and he now enjoyed the new pleasure to the

utmost.

“_Eh, Bébé!_” he chuckled. “_Eh, Bébé! Sacre blue! Bon blue, mon

cher!_” Bébé raised his eyelids with astonishment upon hearing this

cave-shaking chuckle, revealing large, bulging orbs which were of

even a heavenlier blue than his silken hair. Such affection and

intelligence shone in his eyes that Paul Bunyon wished he would keep

his eyes opened. But Bébé was weary and weak, and he closed them

again.

He is hungry, thought Paul Bunyon; and he went out to find him

food. None of the animals he knew about could supply milk for such

a calf as this blue Bébé. But he was newborn and his parents should

be somewhere in the neighborhood. Paul Bunyon stepped up on the

cliff over which Bébé had bounced when he fell into Tonnere Bay.

From here a wide swath of smashed timber ran straight up the side of

the tallest Northern mountain. It was here that Bébé had made his

thunderous roll of the night before.

Six strides brought Paul Bunyon to the mountaintop. One of its jagged

peaks was broken off, showing where Bébé had stumbled over it and

fallen. Then Paul Bunyon followed the calf tracks down the land side

of the mountain. For two hours he trailed them, but they grew fainter

as he went on, and in the Big Bay country the last fall of the blue

snow had covered them. Paul Bunyon now had no doubt that Bébé’s

mother had been frightened by the strange color of the snow and that

his blueness was a birthmark. Like Niagara and the fauna of the

forest, the parents had stampeded, forgetting the little one. It was

no use to search for them.

Paul Bunyon circled back through the forest and gathered a great

load of moose moss before he returned to the cave. This rich food

would meet the lack of milk. Bébé was asleep before the fireplace

when Paul Bunyon returned, and he still slumbered while his friend

prepared him some moose moss soup. But when a kettle full of steaming

odorous food was set before him, he opened his eyes with amazing

energy and sat up. It was then that Bébé first showed the depth and

circumference of his natural appetite, an appetite which was to have

its effect on history. He drank most of the moose moss soup at three

gulps, he seized the rim of the kettle in his teeth and tilted it up

until even the last ten gallons were drained out of it; then, looking

roguishly at Paul Bunyon the while, he bit off a large section of the

kettle rim and chewed it down, switching his pretty tail to show his

enjoyment.

“_Eh, Bébé!_” roared Paul Bunyon, doubling up with laughter for the

second time in his life. And he praised the blue snow for giving

him such a creature, and did not mourn Niagara, who had never been

amusing. But now, as Paul Bunyon doubled over for another rare roar

of laughter, he got one more surprise. He was struck with terrifical

force from the rear and knocked flat. Paul Bunyon hit the cave floor

so hard that its walls were shaken, and a cloud of stones dropped

from the roof, covering him from his hips to his thighs. Paul Bunyon

dug himself out with no displeasure. He was marveling too much to be

wrathful.

There is strength in this baby animal, he thought; surely he has the

muscle and energy for great deeds; for that was such a tremendous

butting he gave me that I am more comfortable standing than sitting.

So he stood and admired this strong and energetic ox calf, who was

calmly seated on his haunches before the fireplace, now throwing his

head to the right as he licked his right shoulder, now throwing his

head to the left as he licked his left shoulder. While Paul Bunyon

admired, he pondered; then, even as Bébé had given him his first

laugh, the ox calf now showed him the outline of his first real idea.

The thought struck him that his student’s life was finally over;

there was nothing more for him to learn; there was everything for him

to do. The hour for action was at hand.

Indeed, if he was to keep this blue ox calf, action was truly

necessary. Bébé had shown that his superabundance of vitality made

him dangerous as well as delightful and amusing. This inexhaustible

energy of his must be put to work; this vast store of power in an

oxhide should be developed and harnessed to give reality to some one

of Paul Bunyon’s vague dreams.

Soon the well-fed blue ox calf lay down and slept contentedly.

But Paul Bunyon did not sleep. One after another, occupations,

enterprises and industries which would be worthy of his knowledge and

his extraordinary mental and physical powers, and which would also

offer labor great enough for Bébé when he was grown, were considered

by Paul Bunyon; but nothing that he thought about satisfied him in

the least. Certainly he would have to invent something new; and as he

thought of invention, his imagination blazed up like a fire in a dry

forest. He was so unused to it that it got out of control, and its

smoky flames hid his idea rather than illuminated it.

Wearied at last, he lay on his side, for he remembered his bruises,

and he fell into a troubled doze. Now he dreamed and saw great

blazing letters which formed the words REAL AMERICA. He sat up,

and his bruises gave him such sudden pain that the dream vanished

utterly. But he dreamed again before morning. In this second dream

he saw no words, but a forest. A flame like a scythe blade sheared

through the trees and they fell. Then Paul Bunyon saw in his dream a

forest of stumps, and trees were fallen among them.

For many days Paul Bunyon thought about these dreams as he gathered

moose moss for Bébé and seined fish from the bay for himself. And for

many nights he tried to dream again, but his sleep was the untroubled

sleep of the weary.

Bébé grew wonderfully as the weeks went by, and the moose moss made

him saucy as well as fat. His bulging blue eyes got a jovial look

that was never to leave them. His bellow already had bass tones

in it. He would paw and snort and lift his tail as vigorously as

any ordinary ox ten times his age. His chest deepened, his back

widened, muscle-masses began to swell and quiver under the fat of his

shoulders and haunches. The drifts of the beautiful unnatural snow

melted away in streams of blue water, and the marvelous color of this

historical winter vanished, but the glittering blue of Bébé’s silken

hair remained. His tail brush was of a darker blue; it looked like a

heavily foliaged cypress bough in purple twilight; and Bébé was proud

of this wonderful tail brush that belonged to him, for he would twist

it from behind him and turn his head and stare at it by the hour.

Now spring came and Paul Bunyon determined to start out with his blue

ox calf and try to find the meanings of his dreams. The bright warm

hours of these days gave him a tormenting physical restlessness;

and his imagination ranged through a thousand lands, playing over a

thousand activities. It was certainly the time to begin a Life Work.

Each day Paul Bunyon pondered his two dreams without finding

substantial meaning in them. The first one indicated that he should

go to Real America; and this Paul Bunyon finally resolved to do,

hoping that he would discover the Work that was meant for him and

the blue ox calf. He knew that he could not fare worse in that land,

for few of the fauna of his native country had returned with the

spring, and Paul Bunyon could not live well on a fish diet. Bébé’s

growing appetite, too, made some move a necessity, for the blue snow

had killed the moose grass, and moose moss was a dry food without

nourishment in the summer. The more Paul Bunyon thought about Real

America, the better he liked the idea of going there. Moose and

grass, at least, were to be found across the Border. And no doubt

Real America was his Land of Opportunity.

So one fine day Paul Bunyon and Bébé came down to the Border. The

blue ox calf frolicked with his master and bellowed happily when

he saw the green grass and clover on the hills of Real America. He

was for rushing over at once, but Paul Bunyon, the student, was

not unmindful of his duty to his new country; he would not enter

it without fitting ceremonies and pledges, though Bébé butted him

soundly in resenting the delay.

Now Paul Bunyon lifted his hands solemnly and spoke in the rightful

language of Real America.

“In becoming a Real American, I become Paul _Bunyan_,” he declared.

“I am Paul _Bunyon_ no more. Even so shall my blue ox calf be called

Babe, and Bébé no longer. We are now Real Americans both, hearts,

souls and hides.”

After uttering these words with feeling and solemnity, an emotion

more expansive, more uplifting and more inspiring than any he had

ever known possessed Paul Bunyan and transfigured him. His chest

swelled, his eyes danced and glittered, and his cheeks shone rosily

through the black curls of his beard.

“And I’m glad of it!” he roared. “By the holy old mackinaw, and by

the hell-jumping, high-tailed, fuzzy-eared, whistling old jeem cris

and seventeen slippery saints, I’m _proud_ of it, too! Gloriously

proud!”

Then he felt amazed beyond words that the simple fact of entering

Real America and becoming a Real American could make him feel so

exalted, so pure, so noble, so good. And an indomitable conquering

spirit had come to him also. He now felt that he could whip his

weight in wildcats, that he could pull the clouds out of the sky, or

chew up stones, or tell the whole world anything.

“Since becoming a Real American,” roared Paul Bunyan, “I can look any

man straight in the eye and tell him to go to hell! If I could meet

a man of my own size, I’d prove this instantly. We may find such a

man and celebrate our naturalization in a Real American manner. We

shall see. Yay, Babe!”

Then the two great Real Americans leaped over the Border. Freedom

and Inspiration and Uplift were in the very air of this country, and

Babe and Paul Bunyan got more noble feelings in every breath. They

were greatly exhilarated physically at first; and they galloped over

valleys and hills without looking about them, but only breathing this

soul-flushing air and roaring and bellowing their delight in it.

But before the day was over, Paul Bunyan discovered that Real America

had its sober, matter-of-fact side also. A whisper stirred in his

heart: “To work! Take advantage of your opportunity!” The whisper got

louder and more insistent every moment; and at last the idea it spoke

possessed Paul Bunyan, and he sat down to ponder it, letting Babe

graze and roll on the clover-covered hills.

Now the whisper became an insistent cry: “Work! Work! Work!” Paul

Bunyan looked up, and he seemed to see the word shining among the

clouds; he looked down then into the vast valley, and he seemed to

see--by the holy old mackinaw! he did see--the forest of his second

dream! And now he knew it: his Life Work was to begin here.

For many days and nights Paul Bunyan pondered on the hillside before

the Great Idea came to him. Like all Great Ideas, it was simple

enough, once he had thought of it. Real America was covered with

forests. A forest was composed of trees. A felled and trimmed tree

was a log. Paul Bunyan threw aside his pine tree beard brush and

jumped to his feet with a great shout.

“What greater work could be done in Real America than to make logs

from trees?” he cried. “Logging! I shall invent this industry and

make it the greatest one of all time! I shall become a figure as

admired in history as any of the great ones I have read about.”

Paul Bunyan then delivered his first oration. The blue ox calf was

his only listener; and this was a pity, for Paul Bunyan’s first

oratorical effort, inspired as it was, surely was one of his noblest

ones. But we know the outline of this oration, if not the words. It

dealt mainly with the logging method which he had devised in the

moment, the one which he used in his first work. So he told of his

plan to uproot the trees by hand, and to transport the logs overland,

binding a bundle of them on one side of Babe, and hanging a sack of

rocks from the other side for ballast. It was months after this that

he made his first improvement, the using of a second bundle of logs,

instead of rocks, for ballast. And at this moment Paul Bunyan, for

all his foresight and imagination, could not have dreamed of the

superb tools and marvelous logging methods that he was to originate,

or of the countless crews of little loggers that he was to import

from France, Ireland, Scotland and Scandinavia, or of the tremendous

river drives and the mammoth camp life he was to create. He would

have been bewildered then by the fact that he would some day need a

foreman as grand as himself for his Life Work; and the notion that he

would some day need help in his figurings would have seemed like a

far-fetched jest.

No; in this first oration, imaginative and eloquent as it must have

been, Paul Bunyan only spoke of simple work for himself and Babe. But

he only tells us that the oration was not a long one, for the call to

Work came more insistently as he ended each period. At last he had

to answer this powerful call. He commanded, “Yay, Babe!” and the baby

blue ox and Paul Bunyan descended into the valley to begin the first

logging in the Real American woods.

Reprinted from _The Winter of the Blue Snow_

by James Stevens. By permission of and special

arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.,

authorized publishers.

THE LEGEND OF THE CHRISTMAS ROSE

SELMA LAGERLÖF

Robber Mother, who lived in Robbers’ Cave up in Göinge forest, went

down to the village one day on a begging tour. Robber Father, who was

an outlawed man, did not dare to leave the forest, but had to content

himself with lying in wait for the wayfarers who ventured within

its borders. But at that time travellers were not very plentiful in

Southern Skåne. If it so happened that the man had had a few weeks

of ill luck with his hunt, his wife would take to the road. She took

with her five youngsters, and each youngster wore a ragged leathern

suit and birch-bark shoes and bore a sack on his back as long as

himself. When Robber Mother stepped inside the door of a cabin, no

one dared refuse to give her whatever she demanded; for she was not

above coming back the following night and setting fire to the house

if she had not been well received. Robber Mother and her brood were

worse than a pack of wolves, and many a man felt like running a spear

through them; but it was never done, because they all knew that the

man stayed up in the forest, and he would have known how to wreak

vengeance if anything had happened to the children or the old woman.

Now that Robber Mother went from house to house and begged, she came

one day to Övid, which at that time was a cloister. She rang the

bell of the cloister gate and asked for food. The watchman let down

a small wicket in the gate and handed her six round bread cakes--one

for herself and one for each of the five children.

While the mother was standing quietly at the gate, her youngsters

were running about. And now one of them came and pulled at her skirt,

as a signal that he had discovered something which she ought to come

and see, and Robber Mother followed him promptly.

The entire cloister was surrounded by a high and strong wall, but the

youngster had managed to find a little back gate which stood ajar.

When Robber Mother got there, she pushed the gate open and walked

inside without asking leave, as it was her custom to do.

Övid Cloister was managed at that time by Abbot Hans, who knew all

about herbs. Just within the cloister wall he had planted a little

herb garden, and it was into this that the old woman had forced her

way.

At first glance Robber Mother was so astonished that she paused at

the gate. It was high summertide, and Abbot Hans’ garden was so full

of flowers that the eyes were fairly dazzled by the blues, reds, and

yellows, as one looked into it. But presently an indulgent smile

spread over her features, and she started to walk up a narrow path

that lay between many flower-beds.

In the garden a lay brother walked about, pulling up weeds. It was he

who had left the door in the wall open, that he might throw the weeds

and tares on the rubbish heap outside.

When he saw Robber Mother coming in, with all five youngsters in tow,

he ran toward her at once and ordered them away. But the beggar woman

walked right on as before. She cast her eyes up and down, looking

now at the stiff white lilies which spread near the ground, then on

the ivy climbing high upon the cloister wall, and took no notice

whatever of the lay brother.

He thought she had not understood him, and wanted to take her by the

arm and turn her toward the gate. But when the robber woman saw his

purpose, she gave him a look that sent him reeling backward. She had

been walking with back bent under her beggar’s pack, but now she

straightened herself to her full height. “I am Robber Mother from

Göinge forest; so touch me if you dare!” And it was obvious that she

was as certain she would be left in peace as if she had announced

that she was the Queen of Denmark.

And yet the lay brother dared to oppose her, although now, when he

knew who she was, he spoke reasonably to her. “You must know, Robber

Mother, that this is a monks’ cloister, and no woman in the land is

allowed within these walls. If you do not go away, the monks will be

angry with me because I forgot to close the gate, and perhaps they

will drive me away from the cloister and the herb garden.”

But such prayers were wasted on Robber Mother. She walked straight

ahead among the little flower-beds and looked at the hyssop with its

magenta blossoms, and at the honeysuckles, which were full of deep

orange-colored flower clusters.

Then the lay brother knew of no other remedy than to run into the

cloister and call for help.

He returned with two stalwart monks, and Robber Mother saw that now

it meant business! With feet firmly planted she stood in the path and

began shrieking in strident tones all the awful vengeance she would

wreak on the cloister if she couldn’t remain in the herb garden as

long as she wished. But the monks did not see why they need fear

her and thought only of driving her out. Then Robber Mother let out

a perfect volley of shrieks, and, throwing herself upon the monks,

clawed and bit at them; so did all the youngsters. The men soon

learned that she could overpower them, and all they could do was to

go back into the cloister for reinforcements.

As they ran through the passage-way which led to the cloister, they

met Abbot Hans, who came rushing out to learn what all this noise was

about.

Then they had to confess that Robber Mother from Göinge forest had

come into the cloister and that they were unable to drive her out and

must call for assistance.

But Abbot Hans upbraided them for using force and forbade their

calling for help. He sent both monks back to their work, and although

he was an old and fragile man, he took with him only the lay brother.

When Abbot Hans came out in the garden, Robber Mother was still

wandering among the flower-beds. He regarded her with astonishment.

He was certain that Robber Mother had never before seen an herb

garden; yet she sauntered leisurely between all the small patches,

each of which had been planted with its own species of rare flower,

and looked at them as if they were old acquaintances. At some she

smiled, at others she shook her head.

Abbot Hans loved his herb garden as much as it was possible for him

to love anything earthly and perishable. Wild and terrible as the old

woman looked, he couldn’t help liking that she had fought with three

monks for the privilege of viewing the garden in peace. He came up to

her and asked in a mild tone if the garden pleased her.

Robber Mother turned defiantly toward Abbot Hans, for she expected

only to be trapped and overpowered. But when she noticed his white

hair and bent form, she answered peaceably, “First, when I saw this,

I thought I had never seen a prettier garden; but now I see that it

can’t be compared with one I know of.”

Abbot Hans had certainly expected a different answer. When he heard

that Robber Mother had seen a garden more beautiful than his, a

faint flush spread over his withered cheek. The lay brother, who

was standing close by, immediately began to censure the old woman.

“This is Abbot Hans,” said he, “who with much care and diligence has

gathered the flowers from far and near for his herb garden. We all

know that there is not a more beautiful garden to be found in all

Skåne, and it is not befitting that you, who live in the wild forest

all the year around, should find fault with his work.”

“I don’t wish to make myself the judge of either him or you,” said

Robber Mother. “I’m only saying that if you could see the garden of

which I am thinking you would uproot all the flowers planted here and

cast them away like weeds.”

But the Abbot’s assistant was hardly less proud of the flowers

than the Abbot himself, and after hearing her remarks he laughed

derisively. “I can understand that you only talk like this to tease

us. It must be a pretty garden that you have made for yourself

amongst the pines in Göinge forest! I’d be willing to wager my soul’s

salvation that you have never before been within the walls of an herb

garden.”

Robber Mother grew crimson with rage to think that her word was

doubted, and she cried out: “It may be true that until today I had

never been within the walls of an herb garden, but you monks, who are

holy men, certainly must know that on every Christmas Eve the great

Göinge forest is transformed into a beautiful garden, to commemorate

the hour of our Lord’s birth. We who live in the forest have seen

this happen every year. And in that garden I have seen flowers so

lovely that I dared not lift my hand to pluck them.”

The lay brother wanted to continue the argument, but Abbot Hans gave

him a sign to be silent. For, ever since his childhood, Abbot Hans

had heard it said that on every Christmas Eve the forest was dressed

in holiday glory. He had often longed to see it, but he had never had

the good fortune. Eagerly he begged and implored Robber Mother that

he might come up to the Robbers’ Cave on Christmas Eve. If she would

only send one of her children to show him the way, he could ride up

there alone, and he would never betray them--on the contrary, he

would reward them, in so far as it lay in his power.

Robber Mother said no at first, for she was thinking of Robber Father

and of the peril which might befall him should she permit Abbot Hans

to ride up to their cave. At the same time the desire to prove to the

monk that the garden which she knew was more beautiful than his got

the better of her, and she gave in.

“But more than one follower you cannot take with you,” said she, “and

you are not to waylay us or trap us, as sure as you are a holy man.”

This Abbot Hans promised, and then Robber Mother went her way. Abbot

Hans commanded the lay brother not to reveal to a soul that which had

been agreed upon. He feared that the monks, should they learn of his

purpose, would not allow a man of his years to go up to the Robbers’

Cave.

Nor did he himself intend to reveal his project to a human being.

And then it happened that Archbishop Absalon from Lund came to Övid

and remained through the night. When Abbot Hans was showing him the

herb garden, he got to thinking of Robber Mother’s visit, and the

lay brother, who was at work in the garden, heard Abbot Hans telling

the Bishop about Robber Father, who these many years had lived as an

outlaw in the forest, and asking him for a letter of ransom for the

man, that he might lead an honest life among respectable folk. “As

things are now,” said Abbot Hans, “his children are growing up into

worse malefactors than himself, and you will soon have a whole gang

of robbers to deal with up there in the forest.”

But the Archbishop replied that he did not care to let the robber

loose among honest folk in the villages. It would be best for all

that he remain in the forest.

Then Abbot Hans grew zealous and told the Bishop all about Göinge

forest, which, every year at Yuletide, clothed itself in summer bloom

around the Robber’s Cave. “If these bandits are not so bad but that

God’s glories can be made manifest to them, surely we cannot be too

wicked to experience the same blessing.”

The Archbishop knew how to answer Abbot Hans. “This much I will

promise you, Abbot Hans,” he said, smiling, “that any day you send me

a blossom from the garden in Göinge forest, I will give you letters

of ransom for all the outlaws you may choose to plead for.”

The lay brother apprehended that Bishop Absalon believed as little in

this story of Robber Mother’s as he himself; but Abbot Hans perceived

nothing of the sort, but thanked Absalon for his good promise and

said that he would surely send him the flower.

Abbot Hans had his way. And the following Christmas Eve he did not

sit at home with his monks in Övid Cloister, but was on his way to

Göinge forest. One of Robber Mother’s wild youngsters ran ahead of

him, and close behind him was the lay brother who had talked with

Robber Mother in the herb garden.

Abbot Hans had been longing to make this journey, and he was very

happy now that it had come to pass. But it was a different matter

with the lay brother who accompanied him. Abbot Hans was very dear

to him, and he would not willingly have allowed another to attend

him and watch over him; but he didn’t believe that he should see any

Christmas Eve garden. He thought the whole thing a snare which Robber

Mother had, with great cunning, laid for Abbot Hans, that he might

fall into her husband’s clutches.

While Abbot Hans was riding toward the forest, he saw that everywhere

they were preparing to celebrate Christmas. In every peasant

settlement fires were lighted in the bath-house to warm it for the

afternoon bathing. Great hunks of meat and bread were being carried

from the larders into the cabins, and from the barns came the men

with big sheaves of straw to be strewn over the floors.

As he rode by the little country churches, he observed that each

parson, with his sexton, was busily engaged in decorating his church;

and when he came to the road which leads to Bösjo Cloister, he

observed that all the poor of the parish were coming with armfuls of

bread and long candles, which they had received at the cloister gate.

When Abbot Hans saw all these Christmas preparations, his haste

increased. He was thinking of the festivities that awaited him, which

were greater than any the others would be privileged to enjoy.

But the lay brother whined and fretted when he saw how they were

preparing to celebrate Christmas in every humble cottage. He grew

more and more anxious, and begged and implored Abbot Hans to turn

back and not to throw himself deliberately into the robber’s hands.

Abbot Hans went straight ahead, paying no heed to his lamentations.

He left the plain behind him and came up into desolate and wild

forest regions. Here the road was bad, almost like a stony and

burr-strewn path, with neither bridge nor plank to help them over

brooklet and rivulet. The farther they rode, the colder it grew, and

after a while they came upon snow-covered ground.

It turned out to be a long and hazardous ride through the forest.

They climbed steep and slippery side paths, crawled over swamp and

marsh, and pushed through windfall and bramble. Just as daylight was

waning, the robber boy guided them across a forest meadow, skirted by

tall, naked leaf trees and green fir trees. Back of the meadow loomed

a mountain wall, and in this wall they saw a door of thick boards.

Now Abbot Hans understood that they had arrived, and dismounted.

The child opened the heavy door for him, and he looked into a poor

mountain grotto, with bare stone walls. Robber Mother was seated

before a log fire that burned in the middle of the floor. Alongside

the walls were beds of virgin pine and moss, and on one of these beds

lay Robber Father asleep.

“Come in, you out there!” shouted Robber Mother without rising, “and

fetch the horses in with you, so they won’t be destroyed by the night

cold.”

Abbot Hans walked boldly into the cave, and the lay brother followed.

Here were wretchedness and poverty! and nothing was done to celebrate

Christmas. Robber Mother had neither brewed nor baked; she had

neither washed nor scoured. The youngsters were lying on the floor

around a kettle, eating; but no better food was provided for them

than a watery gruel.

Robber Mother spoke in a tone as haughty and dictatorial as any

well-to-do peasant woman. “Sit down by the fire and warm yourself,

Abbot Hans,” said she; “and if you have food with you, eat, for the

food which we in the forest prepare you wouldn’t care to taste. And

if you are tired after the long journey, you can lie down on one of

these beds to sleep. You needn’t be afraid of oversleeping, for I’m

sitting here by the fire keeping watch. I shall awaken you in time to

see that which you have come up here to see.”

Abbot Hans obeyed Robber Mother and brought forth his food sack; but

he was so fatigued after the journey he was hardly able to eat, and

as soon as he could stretch himself on the bed, he fell asleep.

The lay brother was also assigned a bed to rest upon, but he didn’t

dare sleep, as he thought he had better keep his eye on Robber Father

to prevent his getting up and capturing Abbot Hans. But gradually

fatigue got the better of him, too, and he dropped into a doze.

When he woke up, he saw that Abbot Hans had left his bed and was

sitting by the fire talking with Robber Mother. The outlawed robber

sat also by the fire. He was a tall, raw-boned man with a dull,

sluggish appearance. His back was turned to Abbot Hans, as though he

would have it appear that he was not listening to the conversation.

Abbot Hans was telling Robber Mother all about the Christmas

preparations he had seen on the journey, reminding her of Christmas

feasts and games which she must have known in her youth, when she

lived at peace with mankind. “I’m sorry for your children, who can

never run on the village street in holiday dress or tumble in the

Christmas straw,” said he.

At first Robber Mother answered in short, gruff sentences, but by

degrees she became more subdued and listened more intently. Suddenly

Robber Father turned toward Abbot Hans and shook his clenched fist

in his face. “You miserable monk! did you come here to coax from me

my wife and children? Don’t you know that I am an outlaw and may not

leave the forest?”

Abbot Hans looked him fearlessly in the eyes. “It is my purpose to

get a letter of ransom for you from Archbishop Absalon,” said he. He

had hardly finished speaking when the robber and his wife burst out

laughing. They knew well enough the kind of mercy a forest robber

could expect from Bishop Absalon!

“Oh, if I get a letter of ransom from Absalon,” said Robber Father,

“then I’ll promise you that never again will I steal so much as a

goose.”

The lay brother was annoyed with the robber folk for daring to laugh

at Abbot Hans, but on his own account he was well pleased. He had

seldom seen the Abbot sitting more peaceful and meek with his monks

at Övid than he now sat with this wild robber folk.

Suddenly Robber Mother rose. “You sit here and talk, Abbot Hans,” she

said, “so that we are forgetting to look at the forest. Now I can

hear, even in this cave, how the Christmas bells are ringing.”

The words were barely uttered when they all sprang up and rushed out.

But in the forest it was still dark night and bleak winter. The only

thing they marked was a distant clang borne on a light south wind.

“How can this bell ringing ever awaken the dead forest?” thought

Abbot Hans. For now, as he stood out in the winter darkness, he

thought it far more impossible that a summer garden could spring up

here than it had seemed to him before.

When the bells had been ringing a few moments, a sudden illumination

penetrated the forest; the next moment it was dark again, and then

the light came back. It pushed its way forward between the stark

trees, like a shimmering mist. This much it effected: The darkness

merged into a faint daybreak. Then Abbot Hans saw that the snow had

vanished from the ground, as if some one had removed a carpet, and

the earth began to take on a green covering. Then the ferns shot up

their fronds, rolled like a bishop’s staff. The heather that grew on

the stony hills and the bog-myrtle rooted in the ground moss dressed

themselves quickly in new bloom. The moss-tufts thickened and raised

themselves, and the spring blossoms shot upward their swelling buds,

which already had a touch of color.

Abbot Hans’ heart beat fast as he marked the first signs of the

forest’s awakening. “Old man that I am, shall I behold such a

miracle?” thought he, and the tears wanted to spring to his eyes.

Again it grew so hazy that he feared the darkness would once more

cover the earth; but almost immediately there came a new wave of

light. It brought with it the splash of rivulet and the rush of

cataract. Then the leaves of the trees burst into bloom, as if a

swarm of green butterflies came flying and clustered on the branches.

It was not only trees and plants that awoke, but crossbeaks hopped

from branch to branch, and the woodpeckers hammered on the limbs

until the splinters fairly flew around them. A flock of starlings

from up country lighted in a fir top to rest. They were paradise

starlings. The tips of each tiny feather shone in brilliant reds,

and, as the birds moved, they glittered like so many jewels.

Again, all was dark for an instant, but soon there came a new light

wave. A fresh, warm south wind blew and scattered over the forest

meadow all the little seeds that had been brought here from southern

lands by birds and ships and winds, and which could not thrive

elsewhere because of this country’s cruel cold. These took root and

sprang up the instant they touched the ground.

When the next warm wind came along, the blueberries and lignon

ripened. Cranes and wild geese shrieked in the air, the bullfinches

built nests, and the baby squirrels began playing on the branches of

the trees.

Everything came so fast now that Abbot Hans could not stop to reflect

on how immeasurably great was the miracle that was taking place. He

had time only to use his eyes and ears. The next light wave that came

rushing in brought with it the scent of newly ploughed acres, and far

off in the distance the milkmaids were heard coaxing the cows--and

the tinkle of the sheep’s bells. Pine and spruce trees were so

thickly clothed with red cones that they shone like crimson mantles.

The juniper berries changed color every second, and forest flowers

covered the ground till it was all red, blue and yellow.

Abbot Hans bent down to the earth and broke off a wild strawberry

blossom, and, as he straightened up, the berry ripened in his hand.

The mother fox came out of her lair with a big litter of black-legged

young. She went up to Robber Mother and scratched at her skirt, and

Robber Mother bent down to her and praised her young. The horned

owl, who had just begun his night chase, was astonished at the light

and went back to his ravine to perch for the night. The male cuckoo

crowed, and his mate stole up to the nests of the little birds with

her egg in her mouth.

Robber Mother’s youngsters let out perfect shrieks of delight. They

stuffed themselves with wild strawberries that hung on the bushes,

large as pine cones. One of them played with a litter of young hares;

another ran a race with some young crows, which had hopped from their

nest before they were really ready; a third caught up an adder from

the ground and wound it around his neck and arm.

Robber Father was standing out on a marsh eating raspberries. When he

glanced up, a big black bear stood beside him. Robber Father broke

off an osier twig and struck the bear on the nose. “Keep to your own

ground, you!” he said; “this is my turf.” Then the huge bear turned

around and lumbered off in another direction.

New waves of warmth and light kept coming, and now they brought with

them seeds from the star-flower. Golden pollen from rye fields fairly

flew in the air. Then came butterflies, so big that they looked like

flying lilies. The bee-hive in a hollow oak was already so full of

honey that it dripped down on the trunk of the tree. Then all the

flowers whose seeds had been brought from foreign lands began to

blossom. The loveliest roses climbed up the mountain wall in a race

with the blackberry vines, and from the forest meadow sprang flowers

as large as human faces.

Abbot Hans thought of the flower he was to pluck for Bishop Absalon;

but each new flower that appeared was more beautiful than the others,

and he wanted to choose the most beautiful of all.

Wave upon wave kept coming until the air was so filled with light

that it glittered. All the life and beauty and joy of summer smiled

on Abbot Hans. He felt that earth could bring no greater happiness

than that which welled up about him, and he said to himself, “I do

not know what new beauties the next wave that comes can bring with

it.”

But the light kept streaming in, and now it seemed to Abbot Hans

that it carried with it something from an infinite distance. He felt

a celestial atmosphere enfolding him, and tremblingly he began to

anticipate, now that earth’s joys had come, the glories of heaven

were approaching.

Then Abbot Hans marked how all grew still; the birds hushed their

songs, the flowers ceased growing, and the young foxes played no

more. The glory now nearing was such that the heart wanted to stop

beating; the eyes wept without one’s knowing it; the soul longed to

soar away into the Eternal. From far in the distance faint harp tones

were heard, and celestial song, like a soft murmur, reached him.

Abbot Hans clasped his hands and dropped to his knees. His face was

radiant with bliss. Never had he dreamed that even in this life it

should be granted him to taste the joys of heaven, and to hear angels

sing. Christmas carols!

But beside Abbot Hans stood the lay brother who had accompanied

him. In his mind there were dark thoughts. “This cannot be a true

miracle,” he thought, “since it is revealed to malefactors. This

does not come from God, but has its origin in witchcraft and is sent

hither by Satan. It is the Evil One’s power that is tempting us and

compelling us to see that which has no real existence.”

From afar were heard the sound of angel harps and the tones of a

Miserere. But the lay brother thought it was the evil spirits of

hell coming closer. “They would enchant and seduce us,” sighed he,

“and we shall be sold into perdition.”

The angel throng was so near now that Abbot Hans saw their bright

forms through the forest branches. The lay brother saw them, too; but

back of all this wondrous beauty he saw only some dread evil. For

him it was the devil who performed these wonders on the anniversary

of our Saviour’s birth. It was done simply for the purpose of more

effectually deluding poor human beings.

All the while the birds had been circling around the head of Abbot

Hans, and they let him take them in his hands. But all the animals

were afraid of the lay brother; no bird perched on his shoulder, no

snake played at his feet. Then there came a little forest dove. When

she marked that the angels were nearing, she plucked up courage and

flew down on the lay brother’s shoulder, and laid her head against

his cheek.

Then it appeared to him as if sorcery were come right upon him, to

tempt and corrupt him. He struck with his hand at the forest dove and

cried in such a loud voice that it rang throughout the forest. “Go

thou back to hell, whence thou art come!”

Just then the angels were so near that Abbot Hans felt the feathery

touch of their great wings, and he bowed down to earth in reverent

greeting.

But when the lay brother’s words sounded, their song was hushed and

the holy guests turned in flight. At the same time the light and the

mild warmth vanished in unspeakable terror for the darkness and cold

in a human heart. Darkness sank over the earth, like a coverlet;

frost came, all the growths shrivelled up; the animals and birds

hastened away; the rushing of streams was hushed; the leaves dropped

from the trees, rustling like rain.

Abbot Hans felt how his heart, which had but lately swelled with

bliss, was now contracting with insufferable agony. “I can never

outlive this,” thought he, “that the angels from heaven had been so

close to me and were driven away; that they wanted to sing Christmas

carols for me and were driven to flight.”

Then he remembered the flower he had promised Bishop Absalon, and

at the last moment he fumbled among the leaves and moss to try and

find a blossom. But he sensed how the ground under his fingers

froze and how the white snow came gliding over the ground. Then his

heart caused him even greater anguish. He could not rise, but fell

prostrate on the ground and lay there.

When the robber folk and the lay brother had groped their way back to

the cave, they missed Abbot Hans. They took brands with them and went

out to search for him. They found him dead upon the coverlet of snow.

Then the lay brother began weeping and lamenting, for he understood

that it was he who had killed Abbot Hans because he had dashed from

him the cup of happiness which he had been thirsting to drain to its

last drop.

When Abbot Hans had been carried down to Övid, those who took charge

of the dead saw that he held his right hand locked tight around

something which he must have grasped at the moment of death. When

they finally got his hand open, they found that the thing which he

had held in such an iron grip was a pair of white root bulbs, which

he had torn from among the moss and leaves.

When the lay brother who had accompanied Abbot Hans saw the bulbs, he

took them and planted them in Abbot Hans’ herb garden.

He guarded them the whole year to see if any flower would spring from

them. But in vain he waited through the spring, the summer, and the

autumn. Finally, when winter had set in and all the leaves and the

flowers were dead, he ceased caring for them.

But when Christmas Eve came again, he was so strongly reminded of

Abbot Hans that he wandered out into the garden to think of him. And

lo! as he came to the spot where he had planted the bare root bulbs,

he saw that from them had sprung flourishing green stalks, which bore

beautiful flowers with silver white leaves.

He called out all the monks at Övid, and when they saw that this

plant bloomed on Christmas Eve, when all the other growths were as

if dead, they understood that this flower had in truth been plucked

by Abbot Hans from the Christmas garden in Göinge forest. Then the

lay brother asked the monks if he might take a few blossoms to Bishop

Absalon.

And when he appeared before Bishop Absalon, he gave him the flowers

and said: “Abbot Hans sends you these. They are the flowers he

promised to pick for you from the garden in Göinge forest.”

When Bishop Absalon beheld the flowers, which had sprung from the

earth in darkest winter, and heard the words, he turned as pale as if

he had met a ghost. He sat in silence a moment; thereupon he said,

“Abbot Hans has faithfully kept his word and I shall keep mine.” And

he ordered that a letter of ransom be drawn up for the wild robber

who was outlawed and had been forced to live in the forest ever since

his youth.

He handed the letter to the lay brother, who departed at once for

the Robbers’ Cave. When he stepped in there on Christmas Day, the

robber came toward him with axe uplifted. “I’d like to hack you monks

into bits, as many as you are!” said he. “It must be your fault that

Göinge forest did not last night dress itself in Christmas bloom.”

“The fault is mine alone,” said the lay brother, “and I will gladly

die for it; but first I must deliver a message from Abbot Hans.” And

he drew forth the Bishop’s letter and told the man that he was free.

“Hereafter you and your children shall play in the Christmas straw

and celebrate your Christmas among people, just as Abbot Hans wished

to have it,” said he.

Then Robber Father stood there pale and speechless, but Robber Mother

said in his name, “Abbot Hans has indeed kept his word, and Robber

Father will keep his.”

When the robber and his wife left the cave, the lay brother moved in

and lived all alone in the forest, in constant meditation and prayer

that his hard-heartedness might be forgiven him.

But Göinge forest never again celebrated the hour of our Saviour’s

birth; and of all its glory, there lives to-day only the plant which

Abbot Hans had plucked. It has been named CHRISTMAS ROSE. And each

year at Christmastide she sends forth from the earth her green stalks

and white blossoms, as if she never could forget that she had once

grown in the great Christmas garden at Göinge forest.

Selma Lagerlöf, _The Girl from the Marsh Croft_.

By permission of the publishers, Little, Brown &

Company.

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY OF LEGENDS AND TALES

The editors have found these additional selections very useful in

teaching the writing of legends and tales:

Beck, L. Adams. _The Building of the Taj Mahal_. _The Atlantic

Monthly_, March, 1921.

Canton, William. _A Child’s Book of Saints_ (almost any chapter).

The Everyman Library, E. P. Dutton & Company.

Chaucer, Geoffrey. The Prioress’ Tale, _Hugh of Lincoln_.

Frazer, Lady. _Leaves from the Golden Bough_. The Macmillan Company.

Irving, Washington. _Tales of the Alhambra_, particularly _The

Legend of the Moor’s Legacy_.

Keats, John. _The Eve of St. Agnes_, _The Pot of Basil_.

Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. _Tales of a Wayside Inn_, particularly

_The Falcon of Ser Federigo_, _King Robert of Sicily_, and _The

Vision Beautiful_.