In the wonderful days of old it is said that Christ and Saint Peter went
together upon a journey. It was a beautiful day in March, and the earth
was just beginning to put on her summer gorgeousness. As the two
travelers were passing near a great forest they spied a Thrush sitting
on a tree singing and singing as hard as he could. And he cocked his
head as if he was very proud of something.
Saint Peter stopped at the foot of the tree and said, "I wish you a good
day, Thrush!"
"I have no time to thank you," chirped the Thrush pertly.
"Why not, pretty Thrush?" asked Saint Peter in surprise. "You have all
the time in the world and nothing to do but sing."
"You mistake," cried the Thrush. "I am making the summer! It is I, I, I
who make the green grass grow and the flowers bud. Look, how even now
the world is growing beautiful in answer to my song." And the conceited
little bird continued to warble as hard as he could,--
"To-day I shall marry, I and no other!
To-morrow my brother."
Christ and Saint Peter looked at each other and smiled, then went upon
their way without another word, leaving the Thrush to continue his task
of making the summer.
This was in the morning. But before midday the clouds gathered and the
sky darkened, and at noon a cold rain began to drip. The poor Thrush
ceased his jubilant song and began to shiver in the March wind. By night
the snow was felling thick and fast, and where there had been a green
carpet on the earth was now spread a coverlet of snowy white. Shivering
and like to die of cold the Thrush took refuge under the tree in the
moss and dead leaves. He thought no more of his marriage, nor of his
brother's, but only of the danger which threatened him, and of the
discomfort.
The next morning Christ and Saint Peter, plodding through the
snow-drifts, came upon him again, and Saint Peter said as before, "I
wish you good day, Thrush."
"Thank you," answered the Thrush humbly, and his voice was shaky with
cold and sorrow.
"What do you here on the cold ground, O Thrush-who-make-the-summer, and
why are you so sad?" asked Saint Peter. And the Thrush piped feebly,--
"To-day I must die, I and no other!
To-morrow my brother."
"O foolish little bird," said Saint Peter. "You boasted that you made
the summer. But see! The Lord's will has sent us back to the middle of
winter, to punish your boasting. You shall not die, he will send the sun
again to warm you. But hereafter beware how you take too much credit for
your little efforts."
Since that time March has ever been a treacherous and a changeful month.
Then the Thrush thinks not of marriage, but of his lesson learned in
past days, and wraps himself in his warmest feathers, waiting for the
Lord's will to be done. He is no longer boastful in his song, but sings
it humbly and sweetly to the Lord's glory, thanking him for the summer
which his goodness sends every year to happy bird and beast and child of
man.
* * * * *
Now after this adventure with the Thrush, Christ and Saint Peter went
upon their journey for many miles. At last, weary and hungry, they
passed a Baker's shop. From the window came the smell of new warm bread
baking in the oven, and Christ sent Saint Peter to ask the Baker for a
loaf. But the Baker, who was a stingy fellow, refused.
"Go away with you!" he cried. "I give no bread to lazy beggars!"
"I ask it for my Master, who has traveled many miles and is most faint
and weary," said Saint Peter. But the Baker frowned and shook his head,
then strode into the inner shop, banging the door after him.
The Baker's wife and six daughters were standing at one side when these
things happened, and they heard all that took place. They were generous
and kind-hearted bodies, and tears stood in their eyes at the Baker's
rough words. As soon as he had gone out they wrapped up the loaf and
gave it stealthily to Saint Peter saying,--
"Take the loaf for your Master, good man, and may he be refreshed by
it."
Saint Peter thanked and blessed them and took the loaf to Christ. And
for their charity the Lord set these good women in the sky as the Seven
Stars,--you may see them to this day shining in love upon the sleeping
world. But the wicked Baker he changed into a Cuckoo; and as long as he
sings his dreary song, "Coo-coo! Coo-coo!" in the spring, so long the
Seven Stars are visible in the heaven, so folk say.