THIS is a story of Egypt. In the midst of a great yellow sea of sand was
a tiny green island of an oasis. Everywhere else the sunlight burned on
sand and rocks and low, bare hills to the west. But here there was shade
under the palm-trees, and a spring of cool, clear water. It seemed a
pleasant place, but the men who were living here were far from happy.
There was grumbling and discontent; there were sulky looks and frowns.
Yet these men were trying to be holy hermits, to live beautiful lives
and forget how to be selfish. But it is hard to be good when one is
starving.
There were seventy of them in this lonely camp in the desert,--seventy
hungry monks, who for many days had had only a few olives to eat. And
they blamed one man for all their suffering. It was Fronto who had
induced them to leave the pleasant monastery at Nitria, where the rest
of their brethren were living in peace and plenty. It was Fronto who had
led them into this miserable desert to serve God in solitude, as holy
men loved to do in the early days of Christendom.
Fronto was a holy man, full of faith and courage. He had promised that
they should be fed and cared for in the desert even though they took no
care for themselves, and they had believed him. So each monk took a few
olives in his pouch and a double-pronged hoe to dig and plant corn with,
and followed Fronto into the desert.
After trudging many days they found this spot, far to the east, where no
caravans would come to interrupt them, for it was out of the way of
travel. But soon also they found their provisions gone and no others
forthcoming. What were they to do? They asked Fronto, but he only bade
them be patient. It was when they had borne the pangs of hunger for
several days that they began to grumble and talk of returning home. But
Fronto was indignant. "The Lord will provide," he said, "O ye of little
faith!" And he bade them go to work and try to forget their hunger. The
monks drew the cords tighter about their waists. But that did little
good. They had never fasted like this before! Day by day they grew more
pale and thin, and their long robes flapped about their lean limbs. The
few dates which grew on the palm-trees of their oasis were long since
eaten, and the poor monks went about chewing the knotted ends of their
rope girdles, trying to pretend that it was bread. Oh, how they longed
for even a bit of the hard black bread which was Lenten fare at the
monastery beyond the hills!
Day by day they grew more hollow-cheeked and despairing. At last one
evening they came to Fronto in a body--such a weak, pale body. "Take us
back to Nitria, or we starve!" they cried. "We can endure this no
longer!"
Fronto stood before them even more pale and worn than the rest, but with
the light of beautiful trust in his eyes. "Wait yet a little longer,
brothers," he begged. "We are bidden to take no thought to the morrow,
what we shall eat and drink"--
"Nay, 'tis to-day we think of," interrupted the monks. "If we could eat
to-day we would indeed take no thought of the morrow. But we starve!"
"Patience, brothers," continued the Saint wearily. "If we return now we
shall show that we distrust God's promise. Wait till to-morrow. If help
come not then, I give ye leave to go, without me. I shall not return."
The monks withdrew, still grumbling and unhappy. But the words of the
Saint had made some impression, and they agreed to wait until morning.
Each monk stretched himself on his goatskin mat on the floor of the
little cell which he had dug in the sand. And with groans of hunger
mingled in their prayers they tried to go to sleep and forget how long
it was since their last breakfast.
But Fronto could not sleep. He was sad and disappointed because his
brothers had lost their faith, and because he felt alone, deserted in
this desert by the friends who should have helped him with their
sympathy and trust. All night he knelt on his goatskin mat praying that
the Lord would fulfill His promise now, and prove to the doubting monks
how mistaken their lack of faith had been. The other monks slept a
hungry sleep about him, dreaming of delicious things to eat. Now and
then one of them would cry out: "Another help of pudding, please;" or
"Brother, will you pass the toast?" or "Thank you, I will have an egg,
brother." And Fronto wept as he heard how faint their voices were.
At last the pink fingers of morning began to spread themselves over the
face of the sky, pinching its cheeks into a rosy red. Suddenly Fronto,
who was on his knees with his back to the door of his cell, started.
Hark! what sound was that which came floating on the fresh morning air?
Surely, the tinkle of a bell. The good Saint rose from his mat and went
hastily to the door, his sure hope sending a smile to his pale lips and
color to his hollow cheek. He knew that his prayer was answered. And lo!
away in the northwest he saw a thread of black, crawling like a
caterpillar over the sand toward his oasis. Nearer and nearer it came;
and now he could see plainly what it was,--a line of great rocking
camels, the little tinkling bells on whose harness gave the signal that
hope was at hand.
But the sound had waked the other monks. With a cry of joy they came
tumbling out of their cells and rushed toward the camels, which were
now close to the camp. How the poor monks ran, to be sure, many of them
tripping over the skirts of their long robes and falling flat in the
sand from their weakness and excitement. They were like men on a sinking
ship who had just caught sight of a rescuing sail. Some of them jumped
up and down and clapped their hands like children, they were so glad.
And tears stood in the eyes of nearly all.
There were seventy camels, soft-eyed gentle creatures, whose flat feet
held them up on the soft sand like snowshoes. They bore packs upon their
backs which promised good things, and they came straight to the cell of
Fronto, where they stopped. And what a welcome they received! The monks
threw their arms about the beasts' necks, as they knelt on the sand, and
kissed the soft noses as though they were greeting long-lost brothers.
They were so glad to see the camels themselves that they almost forgot
to wonder whence they came, or what they were bringing. But Fronto was
looking for their owner, for the man who drove them. There was no one
to be found. They had come all alone across the desert, without any one
to guide them. Fronto's face was full of joy. "The Lord has sent them!"
he said. And the other monks bowed their heads, and were ashamed because
they had doubted.
Hungry though they were, first of all the good monks tended the tired
beasts who had come so far to save them. They relieved them from their
heavy loads, and tenderly washed their hot, weary feet, and gave them
draughts of the spring water. Some of the starving monks skurried away
to gather the green grass of the oasis for their hungry friends, and
others unfastened the bales of hay which some of the camels had brought,
and made beds for the animals to lie on. Then they all fell to and built
a fold for the seventy camels in the shade of the palm-trees. And here
they left the patient creatures to rest and chew their cud with a sigh
of relief that the long, hot journey was over.
Then the monks hurried back to Fronto, wondering if it were not now
almost time for their breakfast. They came upon him reading a letter
which he had found on the harness of the foremost camel. It was written
from the city of Alexandria, and it explained how the camels had been
sent.
Four nights before this, Glaucus, the rich merchant, had been resting on
a couch in his summer house. He had just finished an excellent dinner,
with all his favorite fishes and meats and fruits and sweets, and he was
feeling very happy. When suddenly he thought of the seventy monks who
had gone out from Nitria many days before to live in the desert with the
help which the Lord should send. And a pang smote him. Perhaps they were
starving now, while he was feasting. And he wished he could help them to
a dinner as good as his. Ha! an idea came to him. Why should he not
indeed send them a dinner--many dinners? It should be done.
So the next morning he had loaded seventy camels with provisions, five
of them with bales of hay for the camels themselves. And taking them to
the border of the desert, without driver or any one to guide them, he
had sent them out into the sea of sand, the great ships of the desert,
to find the right harbor by themselves. For somehow he felt sure that
the Lord would guide them safely to the monks. Here the letter of
Glaucus ended.
Oh, how good that breakfast tasted to the poor, famished monks! There
were all kinds of fruit,--fresh figs and olives and dates, citrons and
juicy grapes and yellow pomegranates. There were bread and oil which the
monks loved, and nuts and combs of the most delicious golden honey such
as it makes one's mouth water to think of. Glaucus had sent them a
breakfast fit for a king. And they all sat down on the sand in a happy
circle and had the finest picnic that was ever seen in that desert.
When they had eaten they went out once more to visit the camels who had
saved their lives, and to thank them with caressing words. The camels
seemed to understand, and looked at them with gentle eyes, chewing their
cud earnestly as if thinking: "You see, the Lord was looking out for you
all the time. We are only poor, dumb beasts; but we came straight to you
across the desert without any fear or wandering, because we trusted. Why
were you not trustful, too?"
And again the monks were very much ashamed, and went back to Fronto to
beg his forgiveness, promising never again to be faint-hearted nor to
lose faith.
The next morning they made ready to send back the camels to Alexandria.
For they knew Glaucus would be anxious to hear how his ships of the
desert had fared on their errand. And half the provisions they returned,
for they had more than enough to last them a year, according to their
simple meals. Then, with tears in their eyes, the monks sent the great
beasts forth again into the desert, confident that as they had come so
they would find their way back to Alexandria, safe and sound. Each in
his cell door the monks stood and watched them slowly winding away over
the yellow sand, disappearing at last behind the hills which rose like
great waves between them and the world of cities.
Now it was eight days since Glaucus had sent out the camels, and he was
growing uneasy. Seventy camels are a valuable property, which even a
rich man could not afford to lose. Glaucus feared that he had been
foolish; the desert was full of robbers, and there was no one to protect
this leaderless caravan. Would the Lord take care of affairs which were
left wholly to His direction?
Glaucus was sitting with his family in the garden, silent and gloomy.
His family felt that he had been rash, and they did not hesitate to tell
him so, which made him still more unhappy. The leader-camel was the
favorite of Glaucus's daughter, AEmilia. She was crying in a corner of
the garden, thinking about her dear Humpo, whom she never expected to
see again. When, just as Fronto had done, she heard a far-away tinkle.
She jumped up and ran out to the road.
"What is it, AEmilia, my child?" called out her father, startled by her
sudden movement.
"Oh, Father, Father!" she cried. "I think I hear the tinkle of a camel
bell among the mountains!" And sure enough. As they all hurried down to
the garden gate the sound of little bells drew nearer and nearer. And
presently came in sight the line of seventy camels, Humpo at the head,
half of them loaded with the provisions which the monks were too
unselfish to keep. And soon AEmilia had her arms about the neck of her
dear Humpo, and was whispering nice things into his floppy ears as he
knelt before her, looking lovingly at her with his big brown eyes.
Thus it was that Glaucus, the good rich man, knew that the Lord was
pleased with him for his kindness, and had helped him to do his duty.
And every year after that he sent the seventy camels forth into the
desert on their unguided errand to the far-off oasis. So they grew to be
dear friends of Saint Fronto and his monks, looked for as eagerly as
Santa Claus is at Christmas time.