When the Bishop arrived he had such merry, little twinkling eyes and such a kind smile that the Cubs were not a bit afraid of him. He talked in such a jolly way that they quite forgot how very respectful they ought to be; and they crowded round him and all told him things at the same time. And when it came to the Grand Howl, they shouted louder than they had ever shouted before, because they thought the greater and older and holier the Old Wolf on the Council Rock was, the louder they ought to shout!
Then the Bishop sat down.
“Now, I suppose, I’m expected to preach you a sermon?” he said. “But I know you all hate sermons.”
The boys looked abashed, and wondered how he had read their thoughts.
“Well,” said the Bishop, “it shall only be a very short sermon. But first I’ll tell you a story. I know you all love stories.”
“Oh, yes!” said the Cubs all together, their eyes sparkling.
“Then all squat down, like the young wolves in the jungle, and prick up your ears, and listen to this old, old Wolf. It is a story someone told to me when I was a little boy.”
“Many hundreds of years ago,” said the Bishop, “there lived a great King, very wise and splendid, who was loved by all his people. To please them he gave a great feast to celebrate his birthday. All the people put on their holiday clothes and came to the Palace garden, where they feasted and danced, wrestled, and took part in many sports. When the sun began to slope down towards the west, the trumpets blared forth, calling the people to come together in the wide space before the Palace, where the King would speak to his subjects, and where they would hail him with cheers and do him honour.
“So a great crowd collected, and the King, in scarlet and ermine and gold, stepped forth upon the dais that had been decked with flowers and cloth of gold for his honour. And it was at this moment that a tramp of feet was heard, a champing of bits, the noise of people arriving from a journey. All heads were turned to see who was coming. Then two heralds, clad in green and gold, stepped forward and made low obeisance and delivered their message. They had come from a neighbouring Prince to wish the King all good fortune upon his birthday, and to bring him a gift. The gift, they said, was a white horse. It was the most beautiful horse that had ever been bred in the Prince’s country—perfect in every point.
“‘Bring it forth,’ cried the King, very pleased with the gift, for he loved horses.
“The heralds bowed, withdrew, and all the people waited expectantly. The beat of hoofs sounded on the white marble pavement. A murmur of admiration broke from the waiting crowd like the roar of the sea. A beautiful white horse was being led forward, decked with green satin accoutrements and hangings, studded with jewels that sparkled in the sun. A golden bit was in his mouth, and a jewelled bridle about his stately head. His gilded hoofs dazzled the eyes of all beholders as he lifted his feet, stepping proudly forward to his royal master.
“But no sooner had he stepped on to the marble pavement than he stopped, trembling and rolling his eyes in terror. The groom coaxed him, and tried to lead him on, but every few yards he stopped, prancing restively, swerving away, drawing back. The people ceased to applaud; they even stilled their whispers of admiration, and held their breath. At last the beautiful animal reached the King’s throne. The King stood up, his eyes shining with pleasure at the present. He would have descended to the animal’s side, but the horse had begun to curvet and prance and shy away, as if from some unseen terror. In vain the groom patted his neck and spoke soothing words into his ear. The horse’s eyes were starting from his head as if he saw something beside him which filled him with fear. He was beginning to rear, and the Court looked on in dismay. Had the Prince sent a wild, unbroken horse as a gift to their King?
“Then something strange happened. A little stable boy, who had come to the feast, stepped forward out of the crowd. Bowing low before the King, he said that he knew why the horse was afraid and would not stand before his Majesty.
“The King, who was always willing to hear the opinion of his very lowest vassal if it was worth hearing, gave orders that the royal groom should give the white horse into the charge of the little stable boy. Bowing low, the groom withdrew, and the boy took the golden reins into his hands. Gradually he led the horse, still prancing wildly, away past the throne. Then some twenty yards on he stopped, turned the horse round, and began leading him back. It was as if a miracle had been worked. The horse was perfectly quiet, and as he was led once more before the royal throne he stood still and calm.
“Gradually he led the horse, still prancing wildly, away past the throne”
“Gradually he led the horse, still prancing wildly, away past the throne”
“‘Well done, little stable boy!’ cried the King, stepping from his golden dais and patting the beautiful animal’s neck. ‘But tell me, little friend, why was he afraid?’
“‘Sire,’ said the boy, bending his knee, ‘’twas his own black shadow on the marble floor he feared. I did but turn his face to the sun, and the shadow is behind him, where he sees it not.’
“How do you boys go through your day?” asked the old Bishop, looking at each one with his keen, kind eyes, that twinkled like little blue jewels in his wrinkled face. “Do you go through the day filled with discontent?—trying first to avoid doing this disagreeable thing, and then that one? Afraid of a little trouble, a little pain, a little hardship? Do you pull away every time your conscience says, ‘Tommy, come this way: do that’? Do you jump about and shy, and try and run away, like the white horse, when your mother has told you to do something or other? And are you always nervous—afraid of being ‘found out’? And if you are alone in the dark do you get ‘creeps,’ and think there are bogeys coming after you?”
Some of the Cubs looked down on the ground, and answered nothing. They wondered how the Bishop knew all about them, when he was a stranger.
“Do you know how I know some boys are like that?” he said at length. “You see I have not always been a Bishop, and I have not always been very, very old! Once I was a very naughty small boy, and I can still remember exactly how it felt. I used to do all those things I mentioned to you just now. In fact, I behaved like the white horse; because, you see, I was looking at my shadow—that is, at my ugly little black self, and allIwanted. I couldn’t help seeing myself all the time, and I was always discontented. Why was it the horse saw his shadow?”
“’Cos he’d got his back to the sun,” said one of the Cubs.
“Yes,” said the Bishop, “and so had I—that’s why I couldn’t help always seeing myself. And then, one day, I turned round and faced the sun; that is, I turned and fixed my eyes onGod, the great, shining Sun of our life—and my own shadow fell behind me, and I forgot all about whatIfelt, andIwanted. And I became so happy! And I wasn’t afraid of being ‘found out’ any more. And I didn’t get creeps in the dark. And it became easy to do all the hard things, because I was facing God and doing them for Him.”
. . . . . . . .
“Wish the Bishop would come every week,” said the Cubs, when he had gone, “and we wouldn’t mind if he preached a sermon every time!”
[1]This story (like “In Mid Air”) is also partly founded on fact, though the incident did not happen at St. Moritz, but at Maloja, a place some miles away from St. Moritz, but also in the Engadine.[2]Although this story sounds impossible it is founded on fact. Some eight years ago, when I was at Sea View, Isle of Wight, I helped to fly an enormous kite made by a boy of seventeen. He himself went up on the rope in the way I have described, but fortunately there was no bull in this case, and, after a good fly, we hauled him down again, safely.
[1]This story (like “In Mid Air”) is also partly founded on fact, though the incident did not happen at St. Moritz, but at Maloja, a place some miles away from St. Moritz, but also in the Engadine.
[2]Although this story sounds impossible it is founded on fact. Some eight years ago, when I was at Sea View, Isle of Wight, I helped to fly an enormous kite made by a boy of seventeen. He himself went up on the rope in the way I have described, but fortunately there was no bull in this case, and, after a good fly, we hauled him down again, safely.