I.

ONE fine morning Saint Gerasimus was walking briskly along the bank of

the River Jordan. By his side plodded a little donkey bearing on his

back an earthen jar; for they had been down to the river together to get

water, and were taking it back to the monastery on the hill for the

monks to drink at their noonday meal.

Gerasimus was singing merrily, touching the stupid little donkey now and

then with a twig of olive leaves to keep him from going to sleep. This

was in the far East, in the Holy Land, so the sky was very blue and the

ground smelled hot. Birds were singing around them in the trees and

overhead, all kinds of strange and beautiful birds. But suddenly

Gerasimus heard a sound unlike any bird he had ever known; a sound which

was not a bird's song at all, unless some newly invented kind had a bass

voice which ended in a howl. The little donkey stopped suddenly, and

bracing his fore legs and cocking forward his long, flappy ears, looked

afraid and foolish. Gerasimus stopped too. But he was so wise a man that

he could not look foolish. And he was too good a man to be afraid of

anything. Still, he was a little surprised.

"Dear me," he said aloud, "how very strange that sounded. What do you

suppose it was?" Now there was no one else anywhere near, so he must

have been talking to himself. For he could never have expected that

donkey to know anything about it. But the donkey thought he was being

spoken to, so he wagged his head, and said, "He-haw!" which was a very

silly answer indeed, and did not help Gerasimus at all.

He seized the donkey by the halter and waited to see what would happen.

He peered up and down and around and about, but there was nothing to be

seen except the shining river, the yellow sand, a clump of bushes beside

the road, and the spire of the monastery peeping over the top of the

hill beyond. He was about to start the donkey once more on his climb

towards home, when that sound came again; and this time he noticed that

it was a sad sound, a sort of whining growl ending in a sob. It sounded

nearer than before, and seemed to come from the clump of bushes.

Gerasimus and the donkey turned their heads quickly in that direction,

and the donkey trembled all over, he was so frightened. But his master

only said, "It must be a Lion!"

And sure enough: he had hardly spoken the word when out of the bushes

came poking the great head and yellow eyes of a lion. He was looking

straight at Gerasimus. Then, giving that cry again, he bounded out and

strode towards the good man, who was holding the donkey tight to keep

him from running away. He was the biggest kind of a lion, much bigger

than the donkey, and his mane was long and thick, and his tail had a

yellow brush on the end as large as a window mop. But as he came

Gerasimus noticed that he limped as if he were lame. At once the Saint

was filled with pity, for he could not bear to see any creature suffer.

And without any thought of fear, he went forward to meet the lion.

Instead of pouncing upon him fiercely, or snarling, or making ready to

eat him up, the lion crouched whining at his feet.

"Poor fellow," said Gerasimus, "what hurts you and makes you lame,

brother Lion?"

The lion shook his yellow mane and roared. But his eyes were not fierce;

they were only full of pain as they looked up into those of Gerasimus

asking for help. And then he held up his right fore paw and shook it to

show that this was where the trouble lay. Gerasimus looked at him

kindly.

"Lie down, sir," he said just as one would speak to a big yellow dog.

And obediently the lion charged. Then the good man bent over him, and

taking the great paw in his hand examined it carefully. In the soft

cushion of the paw a long pointed thorn was piercing so deeply that he

could hardly find the end. No wonder the poor lion had roared with pain!

Gerasimus pulled out the thorn as gently as he could, and though it must

have hurt the lion badly he did not make a sound, but lay still as he

had been told. And when the thorn was taken out the lion licked

Gerasimus' hand, and looked up in his face as if he would say, "Thank

you, kind man. I shall not forget."

Now when the Saint had finished this good deed he went back to his

donkey and started on towards the monastery. But hearing the soft pad of

steps behind him he turned and saw that the great yellow lion was

following close at his heels. At first he was somewhat embarrassed, for

he did not know how the other monks would receive this big stranger. But

it did not seem polite or kind to drive him away, especially as he was

still somewhat lame. So Gerasimus took up his switch of olive leaves and

drove the donkey on without a word, thinking that perhaps the lion would

grow tired and drop behind. But when he glanced over his shoulder he

still saw the yellow head close at his elbow; and sometimes he felt the

hot, rough tongue licking his hand that hung at his side.

So they climbed the hill to the monastery. Some one had seen Gerasimus

coming with this strange attendant at his heels, and the windows and

doors were crowded with monks, their mouths and eyes wide open with

astonishment, peering over one another's shoulders. From every corner of

the monastery they had run to see the sight; but they were all on

tiptoe to run back again twice as quickly if the lion should roar or

lash his tail. Now although Gerasimus knew that the house was full of

staring eyes expecting every minute to see him eaten up, he did not

hurry or worry at all. Leisurely he unloaded the water-jar and put the

donkey in his stable, the lion following him everywhere he went. When

all was finished he turned to bid the beast good-by. But instead of

taking the hint and departing as he was expected to, the lion crouched

at Gerasimus' feet and licked his sandals; and then he looked up in the

Saint's face and pawed at his coarse gown pleadingly, as if he said,

"Good man, I love you because you took the thorn out of my foot. Let me

stay with you always to be your watch-dog." And Gerasimus understood.

"Well, if you wish to stay I am willing, so long as you are good," he

said, and the lion leaped up and roared with joy so loudly that all the

monks who were watching tumbled over one another and ran away to their

cells in a terrible fright, locking the doors behind them.

Gerasimus carried the water-jar into the empty kitchen, and the lion

followed. After sniffing about the place to get acquainted, just as a

kitten does in its new home, the lion lay down in front of the fire and

curled his head up on his paws, like the great big cat he was. And so

after a long sigh he went to sleep. Then Gerasimus had a chance to tell

the other monks all about it. At first they were timid and would not

hear of keeping such a dangerous pet. But when they had all tiptoed down

to the kitchen behind Gerasimus and had seen the big kitten asleep there

so peacefully they were not quite so much afraid.

"I'll tell you what we will do," said the Abbot. "If Brother Gerasimus

can make his friend eat porridge and herbs like the rest of us we will

let him join our number. He might be very useful,--as well as

ornamental,--in keeping away burglars and mice. But we cannot have any

flesh-eating creature among us. Some of us are too fat and tempting, I

fear," and he glanced at several of the roundest monks, who shuddered in

their tight gowns. But the Abbot himself was the fattest of them all,

and he spoke with feeling.

So it was decided. Gerasimus let the lion sleep a good long nap, to put

him in a fine humor. But when it came time for supper he mixed a bowl of

porridge and milk and filled a big wooden platter with boiled greens.

Then taking one dish in each hand he went up to the lion and set them in

front of his nose.

"Leo, Leo, Leo!" he called coaxingly, just as a little girl would call

"Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!" to her pet. The lion lifted up his head and

purred, like a small furnace, for he recognized his friend's voice. But

when he smelled the dishes of food he sniffed and made a horrid face,

wrinkling up his nose and saying "Ugh!" He did not like the stuff at

all. But Gerasimus patted him on the head and said, "You had better eat

it, Leo; it is all I have myself. Share and share alike, brother."

The lion looked at him earnestly, and then dipped his nose into the

porridge with a grunt. He ate it all, and found it not so very bad. So

next he tried the greens. They were a poor dessert, he thought; but

since he saw that Gerasimus wanted him to eat them he finished the

dish, and then lay down on the hearth feeling very tired.

Gerasimus was delighted, for he had grown fond of the lion and wanted to

keep him. So he hurried back to the dining hall and showed the empty

dishes to the Abbot. That settled the lion's fate. Thenceforth he became

a member of the monastery. He ate with the other monks in the great

hall, having his own private trencher and bowl beside Gerasimus. And he

grew to like the mild fare of the good brothers,--at least he never

sought for anything different. He slept outside the door of his master's

cell and guarded the monastery like a faithful watch-dog. The monks grew

fond of him and petted him so that he lived a happy life on the hill,

with never a wish to go back to the desert with its thorns.