I.

SAINT WERBURGH was a King's daughter, a real princess, and very

beautiful. But unlike most princesses of the fairy tales, she cared

nothing at all about princes or pretty clothes or jewels, or about

having a good time. Her only longing was to do good and to make other

people happy, and to grow good and wise herself, so that she could do

this all the better. So she studied and studied, worked and worked; and

she became a holy woman, an Abbess. And while she was still very young

and beautiful, she was given charge of a whole convent of nuns and

school-girls not much younger than herself, because she was so much

wiser and better than any one else in all the countryside.

But though Saint Werburgh had grown so famous and so powerful, she still

remained a simple, sweet girl. All the country people loved her, for she

was always eager to help them, to cure the little sick children and to

advise their fathers and mothers. She never failed to answer the

questions which puzzled them, and so she set their poor troubled minds

at ease. She was so wise that she knew how to make people do what she

knew to be right, even when they wanted to do wrong. And not only human

folk but animals felt the power of this young Saint. For she loved and

was kind to them also. She studied about them and grew to know their

queer habits and their animal way of thinking. And she learned their

language, too. Now when one loves a little creature very much and

understands it well, one can almost always make it do what one

wishes--that is, if one wishes right.

For some time Saint Werburgh had been interested in a flock of wild

geese which came every day to get their breakfast in the convent meadow,

and to have a morning bath in the pond beneath the window of her cell.

She grew to watch until the big, long-necked gray things with their

short tails and clumsy feet settled with a harsh "Honk!" in the grass.

Then she loved to see the big ones waddle clumsily about in search of

dainties for the children, while the babies stood still, flapping their

wings and crying greedily till they were fed.

There was one goose which was her favorite. He was the biggest of them

all, fat and happy looking. He was the leader and formed the point of

the V in which a flock of wild geese always flies. He was the first to

alight in the meadow, and it was he who chose the spot for their

breakfast. Saint Werburgh named him Grayking, and she grew very fond of

him, although they had never spoken to one another.

Master Hugh was the convent Steward, a big, surly fellow who did not

love birds nor animals except when they were served up for him to eat.

Hugh also had seen the geese in the meadow. But, instead of thinking how

nice and funny they were, and how amusing it was to watch them eat the

worms and flop about in the water, he thought only, "What a fine goose

pie they would make!" And especially he looked at Grayking, the plumpest

and most tempting of them all, and smacked his lips. "Oh, how I wish I

had you in my frying-pan!" he said to himself.

Now it happened that worms were rather scarce in the convent meadow that

spring. It had been dry, and the worms had crawled away to moister

places. So Grayking and his followers found it hard to get breakfast

enough. One morning, Saint Werburgh looked in vain for them in the usual

spot. At first she was only surprised; but as she waited and waited, and

still they did not come, she began to feel much alarmed.

Just as she was going down to her own dinner, the Steward, Hugh,

appeared before her cap in hand and bowing low. His fat face was puffed

and red with hurrying up the convent hill, and he looked angry.

"What is it, Master Hugh?" asked Saint Werburgh in her gentle voice.

"Have you not money enough to buy to-morrow's breakfast?" for it was his

duty to pay the convent bills.

"Nay, Lady Abbess," he answered gruffly; "it is not lack of money that

troubles me. It is abundance of geese."

"Geese! How? Why?" exclaimed Saint Werburgh, startled. "What of geese,

Master Hugh?"

"This of geese, Lady Abbess," he replied. "A flock of long-necked

thieves have been in my new-planted field of corn, and have stolen all

that was to make my harvest." Saint Werburgh bit her lips.

"What geese were they?" she faltered, though she guessed the truth.

"Whence the rascals come, I know not," he answered, "but this I know.

They are the same which gather every morning in the meadow yonder. I

spied the leader, a fat, fine thief with a black ring about his neck. It

should be a noose, indeed, for hanging. I would have them punished, Lady

Abbess."

"They shall be punished, Master Hugh," said Saint Werburgh firmly, and

she went sadly up the stair to her cell without tasting so much as a bit

of bread for her dinner. For she was sorry to find her friends such

naughty birds, and she did not want to punish them, especially Grayking.

But she knew that she must do her duty.

When she had put on her cloak and hood she went out into the courtyard

behind the convent where there were pens for keeping doves and chickens

and little pigs. And standing beside the largest of these pens Saint

Werburgh made a strange cry, like the voice of the geese themselves,--a

cry which seemed to say, "Come here, Grayking's geese, with Grayking at

the head!" And as she stood there waiting, the sky grew black above her

head with the shadowing of wings, and the honking of the geese grew

louder and nearer till they circled and lighted in a flock at her feet.

She saw that they looked very plump and well-fed, and Grayking was the

fattest of the flock. All she did was to look at them steadily and

reproachfully; but they came waddling bashfully up to her and stood in a

line before her with drooping heads. It seemed as if something made them

stay and listen to what she had to say, although they would much rather

fly away.

Then she talked to them gently and told them how bad they were to steal

corn and spoil the harvest. And as she talked they grew to love her

tender voice, even though it scolded them. She cried bitterly as she

took each one by the wings and shook him for his sins and whipped

him--not too severely. Tears stood in the round eyes of the geese also,

not because she hurt them, for she had hardly ruffled their thick

feathers; but because they were sorry to have pained the beautiful

Saint. For they saw that she loved them, and the more she punished them

the better they loved her. Last of all she punished Grayking. But when

she had finished she took him up in her arms and kissed him before

putting him in the pen with the other geese, where she meant to keep

them in prison for a day and a night. Then Grayking hung his head, and

in his heart he promised that neither he nor his followers should ever

again steal anything, no matter how hungry they were. Now Saint Werburgh

read the thought in his heart and was glad, and she smiled as she turned

away. She was sorry to keep them in the cage, but she hoped it might do

them good. And she said to herself, "They shall have at least one good

breakfast of convent porridge before they go."

Saint Werburgh trusted Hugh, the Steward, for she did not yet know the

wickedness of his heart. So she told him how she had punished the geese

for robbing him, and how she was sure they would never do so any more.

Then she bade him see that they had a breakfast of convent porridge the

next morning; and after that they should be set free to go where they

chose.

Hugh was not satisfied. He thought the geese had not been punished

enough. And he went away grumbling, but not daring to say anything cross

to the Lady Abbess who was the King's daughter.