III.Knighthood in the Crusades

Peter the Hermit preaching the Crusade

Peter, light of heart but strong of purpose, started forth in the year 1094. He was clad in a woolen garment over which he wore a coarse brown mantle. His feet and head he left bare. He was a small man, and if you had seen him, you would not have called himfine looking. Still, he was never refused admittance into the presence of prince or king.

The poor loved him for his gentleness, and the rich loaded him with gifts. These, however, he never kept for himself, but gave to those who were in need.

At Clermont, in November, 1095, the Pope held a council of all the cardinals, bishops, and priests who stood high in the Church. He told them what Peter meant to do, asking them to render him aid. So earnestly did he speak, that when he had finished, they all shouted together, “God wills it! God wills it!”

“Then,” said Pope Urban, “let the army of the Lord when it rushes upon its enemies shout that cry, ‘God wills it.’”

He commanded all who should take up arms in the cause to wear on the shoulder a cross, reminding them that Christ had said, “He that does not take up his cross and follow me is not worthy of me.” This is why the wars were called the Crusades, for the word “crusade” means literally “the taking of the cross.”

A great army was soon assembled and ready to march. All the men were eager and wild with enthusiasm, but most of them had never had any military training. How would they succeed in that long and toilsome journey across sea and land to Palestine?

They soon began to meet with trouble. In their haste, they had not provided nearly enough food for themselves. When that gave out, they began to take whatever they needed from the people along the way. In Hungary they did much harm to towns and farms. This made the inhabitants very angry, and they came out to fight the crusaders. Many of the crusaders were killed and the rest were scattered in flight.

At length Peter was separated from his followers, and wandered for some time alone in the forest. Then, in order to make his whereabouts known to any who might be in the same forest or near, he blew his horn. In answer to his call several companies of his friends soon appeared. So with only a small number of those who at first started out, Peter at length reached Constantinople.

At that time Constantinople was the capital of the Roman Empire in the East and its ruler was the Emperor Alexis. The emperor received the crusaders kindly. Here Peter the Hermit was rejoined by a large force of his followers who had been separated from him during the march.

After leaving Constantinople, the crusaders entered the land of the Turks, through which they must march before reaching the Holy Land. A terrible battle wassoon fought with the Moslems, and most of the crusaders perished. Peter now saw that with the few men who were left he could do nothing; he therefore decided to find a place of security among the mountains and wait there until aid should come. There we shall leave him for a time.

When Pope Urban II called the council of Clermont, and so many men of all ranks stitched upon their shoulders the cross of red silk, the Age of Chivalry in Europe had already begun. The word “chivalry” is from a French word which means rider of a horse. So, when we speak of the Age of Chivalry, we picture to ourselves knights riding their horses and engaging in real or mock battles.

The mock battles were called jousts or tournaments, and they were the chief amusement of the time. Noble lords and beautiful ladies were present and watched the contest from raised seats as we now watch ball games. The real battles had many causes. Sometimes one prince would quarrel with a neighboringprince and settle the dispute by war. Sometimes a body of knights would go forth to avenge a wrong.

A Knight of the Crusades

Sometimes a king would call upon his knights to go with him to conquer some neighboring country. The knights were therefore always ready for war.

Every boy, if he were the son of a noble, at about the age of seven was sent to the castle or court of some prince or king, as a page.

Here he was taught modesty and obedience, hunting, riding, archery, and the hurling of the lance.

When he had become skillful in these he might bear the shield of his master. He was then a squire. He must know no fear, and must not boast of his own deeds. He must defend the weak and be ever courteous to ladies. At feasts he must carve the meats and wait upon the guests.

When he reached the age of twenty-one, the squire might be made a knight. This was often a very pretty ceremony. The squire would come before his lord and a great party of nobles, dressed in armor, except the helmet, sword, and spurs.

Several nobles would offer themselves as sponsors, declaring that they were sure he would prove himself noble and brave. Then the squire was struck lightly on the shoulders with the sword of his master. At the same time his master repeated these words, “I dub thee knight in the name of God and St. Michael; be faithful, bold, and fortunate.” The knight then went forth to do some deed by which to “win his spurs.”

Sometimes, before being knighted, the young squire was left in the chapel of the castle all night. Here he guarded his armor, and by devout and continuous prayer invoked the blessing of God upon himself and whatever cause he should undertake.

Urged by the preaching of Peter the Hermit and the encouragement of Pope Urban, the knights of Western Europe took up the cause of the crusades. Soon after the departure of Peter with his untrained host of followers, a gallant army, led by two famous knights, Godfrey of Bouillon and Tancred, an Italian knight, began its march to the Holy Land.

Peter at last succeeded in joining them with the few men who were left with him, and together they advanced to Jerusalem.

Many are the tales that are told of the knightly leaders in this first crusade, and many were their adventures. It was on the 29th of May, 1099, that the Christian army first came into full view of the Holy City. Filled with new zeal at the sight, every man shouted, “It is the will of God.”

The city, however, had been fortified in every possible way, and Godfrey, who was in command, knew it would be a hard task to mount the high walls. He was certain that battering-rams would be necessary to break down the walls, but how were they to obtain the material to make them? The barren country around afforded nothing of which they could make use. To transport the timber from a distance would exhaust both men and horses which were already suffering from scarcity of water and food.

At last news came that a fleet had arrived fromGenoa with siege machines and supplies. The crusaders hastened to the nearest seaport, but found that their enemies had been before them and destroyed the fleet. Still they were able to pick up much of the material and many of the instruments used in the making of the machines. Some of the Genoese who were skilled in handicraft put together a few wooden towers and other devices which were of great use in surmounting and breaking down the walls. Bridges were also thrown out, over the walls, by which the soldiers could pass into the city.

On Thursday morning, July 14, 1099, the crusaders made the first attack with their wooden towers. The Saracens, as the Mohammedans were called by the crusaders, met them with missiles of all sorts, which they threw upon them. The crusaders soon made a breach in the wall, but still could not enter the city.

Early the next morning the attack was renewed. A procession of priests was formed and moved about through the throng, encouraging the knights. A pigeon was captured, and under its wing a note was found telling the Saracen commander that help was at hand. This stirred the Christians to still fiercer attack.

Suddenly there appeared to the host a horseman clothed in white. The crusaders at once recognizedthe vision of St. George. “St. George has come to our assistance,” Godfrey exclaimed. “He signals to enter the Holy City.”

Jerusalem taken by the Crusaders

Again arose the cry, “God wills it! God wills it!” Godfrey commanded the attack to be renewed. The hay which the Saracens had heaped up against the walls to deaden the shock of the battering-rams was set on fire. The Saracens, stifled by the smoke, leaped from the walls. Then the tower bridges were let fall, and soon Godfrey and other knights forced their way into the city.

After the capture of the Holy City, Godfrey was chosen king of Jerusalem, or Defender of the Faith. But he lived only about a year to enjoy that high distinction.

Tancred was known among his followers for his unselfishness. He seemed never to become weary. If a comrade complained of a duty, he himself would perform it. He patrolled walls at night, fought by day, and by his own endurance of labor and hard fare sought to set an example for his men.

One night, when he was standing guard with only his squire as companion, he was attacked by three armed Saracens on horseback. They came upon him quickly, thinking, of course, that they could easily overcome him. They did not know that the blade of this renowned warrior could cleave their heavy armor as if it were cloth.

On came the first horseman and down came Tancred’s sword. The Saracen fell. The next, who had seen the first one fall, waited for the third. Verycautiously they approached side by side, but they soon fared the same as their companion.

It was Tancred who took possession of Bethlehem. He was made ruler over that part of the Holy Land, but hearing that Antioch was threatened by the Saracens, he went to its relief. For three years he held it against the unbelievers.

Tancred’s cousin, Bohemond, who was the rightful ruler of Antioch, was held as prisoner by the Saracen commander; but finally Tancred succeeded in setting his cousin free. He at once gave up to his cousin the entire rule, although he had so endeared himself to the people that they besought him to remain.

A battle wound was the cause of Tancred’s death. He met his fate bravely, and died with the purpose of saving the Holy Land still uppermost in his heart.

Between the years 1095 and 1270 there were eight crusades, all undertaken for the purpose of delivering the Holy Land from the Saracens. While they failed to accomplish that object, they were still of great benefit to the Church and civilization. They made the people better acquainted with the geography and history of other lands, and led to an increase of trade and industry throughout the known world.

Happy young friends, sit by me,Under May’s blown apple tree,While these home birds in and outThrough the blossoms flit about.Hear a story strange and old,By the wild red Indians told.How the robin came to be:Once a great chief left his son,—Well-beloved, his only one,—When the boy was well-nigh grown,In the trial lodge alone.Left for tortures long and slowYouths like him must undergo,Who their pride of manhood test,Lacking water, food, and rest.Seven days the fast he kept,Seven nights he never slept.Then the young boy, wrung with pain,Weak from nature’s overstrain,Faltering, moaned a low complaint,“Spare me, father, for I faint!”But the chieftain, haughty-eyed,Hid his pity in his pride.“You shall be a hunter good,Knowing never lack of food;You shall be a warrior great,Wise as fox and strong as bear;Many scalps your belt shall wear,If with patient heart you waitBravely till your task is done.Better you should starving dieThan that boy and squaw should cryShame upon your father’s son!”When next morn the sun’s first raysGlistened on the hemlock sprays,Straight that lodge the old chief sought,And boiled samp and moose meat brought.“Rise and eat, my son!” he said.Lo, he found the poor boy dead!As with grief his grave they made,And his bow beside him laid,Pipe, and knife, and wampum braid,On the lodge top overhead,Preening smooth its breast of redAnd the brown coat that it wore,Sat a bird, unknown before.And as if with human tongue,“Mourn me not,” it said, or sung;“I, a bird, am still your son,Happier than if hunter fleet,Or a brave, before your feetLaying scalps in battle won.Friend of man, my song shall cheerLodge and corn land; hovering near,To each wigwam I shall bringTidings of the coming spring;Every child my voice shall knowIn the moon of melting snow,When the maple’s red bud swells,And the windflower lifts its bells.As their fond companionMen shall henceforth own your son,And my song shall testifyThat of human kin am I.”Thus the Indian legend saithHow, at first, the robin cameWith a sweeter life than death,Bird for boy, and still the same.If my young friends doubt that thisIs the robin’s genesis,Not in vain is still the mythIf a truth be found therewith:Unto gentleness belongGifts unknown to pride and wrong;Happier far than hate is praise,—He who sings than he who slays.—John G. Whittier.

Happy young friends, sit by me,

Under May’s blown apple tree,

While these home birds in and out

Through the blossoms flit about.

Hear a story strange and old,

By the wild red Indians told.

How the robin came to be:

Once a great chief left his son,—

Well-beloved, his only one,—

When the boy was well-nigh grown,

In the trial lodge alone.

Left for tortures long and slow

Youths like him must undergo,

Who their pride of manhood test,

Lacking water, food, and rest.

Seven days the fast he kept,Seven nights he never slept.Then the young boy, wrung with pain,Weak from nature’s overstrain,Faltering, moaned a low complaint,“Spare me, father, for I faint!”But the chieftain, haughty-eyed,Hid his pity in his pride.“You shall be a hunter good,Knowing never lack of food;You shall be a warrior great,Wise as fox and strong as bear;Many scalps your belt shall wear,If with patient heart you waitBravely till your task is done.Better you should starving dieThan that boy and squaw should cryShame upon your father’s son!”

Seven days the fast he kept,

Seven nights he never slept.

Then the young boy, wrung with pain,

Weak from nature’s overstrain,

Faltering, moaned a low complaint,

“Spare me, father, for I faint!”

But the chieftain, haughty-eyed,

Hid his pity in his pride.

“You shall be a hunter good,

Knowing never lack of food;

You shall be a warrior great,

Wise as fox and strong as bear;

Many scalps your belt shall wear,

If with patient heart you wait

Bravely till your task is done.

Better you should starving die

Than that boy and squaw should cry

Shame upon your father’s son!”

When next morn the sun’s first raysGlistened on the hemlock sprays,Straight that lodge the old chief sought,And boiled samp and moose meat brought.“Rise and eat, my son!” he said.Lo, he found the poor boy dead!As with grief his grave they made,And his bow beside him laid,Pipe, and knife, and wampum braid,On the lodge top overhead,Preening smooth its breast of redAnd the brown coat that it wore,Sat a bird, unknown before.And as if with human tongue,“Mourn me not,” it said, or sung;“I, a bird, am still your son,Happier than if hunter fleet,Or a brave, before your feetLaying scalps in battle won.Friend of man, my song shall cheerLodge and corn land; hovering near,To each wigwam I shall bringTidings of the coming spring;Every child my voice shall knowIn the moon of melting snow,When the maple’s red bud swells,And the windflower lifts its bells.As their fond companionMen shall henceforth own your son,And my song shall testifyThat of human kin am I.”

When next morn the sun’s first rays

Glistened on the hemlock sprays,

Straight that lodge the old chief sought,

And boiled samp and moose meat brought.

“Rise and eat, my son!” he said.

Lo, he found the poor boy dead!

As with grief his grave they made,

And his bow beside him laid,

Pipe, and knife, and wampum braid,

On the lodge top overhead,

Preening smooth its breast of red

And the brown coat that it wore,

Sat a bird, unknown before.

And as if with human tongue,

“Mourn me not,” it said, or sung;

“I, a bird, am still your son,

Happier than if hunter fleet,

Or a brave, before your feet

Laying scalps in battle won.

Friend of man, my song shall cheer

Lodge and corn land; hovering near,

To each wigwam I shall bring

Tidings of the coming spring;

Every child my voice shall know

In the moon of melting snow,

When the maple’s red bud swells,

And the windflower lifts its bells.

As their fond companion

Men shall henceforth own your son,

And my song shall testify

That of human kin am I.”

Thus the Indian legend saithHow, at first, the robin cameWith a sweeter life than death,Bird for boy, and still the same.If my young friends doubt that thisIs the robin’s genesis,Not in vain is still the mythIf a truth be found therewith:Unto gentleness belongGifts unknown to pride and wrong;Happier far than hate is praise,—He who sings than he who slays.

Thus the Indian legend saith

How, at first, the robin came

With a sweeter life than death,

Bird for boy, and still the same.

If my young friends doubt that this

Is the robin’s genesis,

Not in vain is still the myth

If a truth be found therewith:

Unto gentleness belong

Gifts unknown to pride and wrong;

Happier far than hate is praise,—

He who sings than he who slays.

—John G. Whittier.

One day when St. Francis was in a village of Italy, he began to preach; and first of all he commanded the swallows who were singing that they should keep silence until he had done preaching, and the swallows obeyed him. And he preached with so much fervor that all the men and women in that village were minded to go forth and abandon the village.

But St. Francis suffered them not, and said to them: “Do not be in haste, and do not go hence, and I will order that which you must do for the salvation of your souls;” and then he thought of his third order for the salvation of the whole world. And he left them much comforted and well disposed to penance; and he departed thence.

And passing along, in fervor of soul, he lifted up his eyes and saw many trees standing by the way, and filled with a countless multitude of little birds; at which St. Francis wondered, and said to his companions, “Wait a little for me in the road, and I will go and preach to my sisters the birds.”

And he entered into the field, and began to preach to the birds that were on the ground. And suddenly, those that were in the trees came around him, and together they all remained silent, so long as it pleased St. Francis to speak; and even after he had finished they would not depart until he had given them his blessing. And according as it was afterwards related, St. Francis went among them and touched them with his cloak, and none of them moved.

The substance of the sermon was this: “My little sisters, the birds, you are much beholden to God your creator, and in all places you ought to praise Him, becauseHe has given you liberty to fly about in all places, and has given you double and triple raiment. Know also that He preserved your race in the ark of Noe that your species might not perish.

“And again you are beholden to Him for the element of air, which He has appointed for you; and for this also that you never sow nor reap, but God feeds you and gives you the brooks and fountains for your drink, the mountains and valleys also for your refuge, and the tall trees wherein to make your nests. And since you know neither how to sew nor how to spin, God clothes you, you and your young ones. Wherefore your creator loves you much, since He has bestowed on you so many benefits. And therefore beware, my little sisters, of the sin of ingratitude, and study always to please God.”

As St. Francis spoke thus to them, all the multitude of these birds opened their beaks, and stretched out their necks, and opened their wings; and reverently bowing their heads to the earth, by their acts and by their songs they showed that the words of the holy father gave them the greatest delight. And St. Francis rejoiced, and was glad with them, and marveled much at such a multitude of birds, and at their beautiful variety, and their attention and familiarity; for all which he devoutly praised their creator in them.

Finally, having finished his sermon, St. Francis made the sign of the cross over them, and gave them leave to depart. Thereupon, all those birds arose in the air, with wonderful singing; and after the fashion of the sign of the cross which St. Francis had made over them, they divided themselves into four parts; and one part flew toward the east, and another to the west, another to the south, and another to the north.

Then, all departing, they went their way singing wonderful songs, signifying by this that as St. Francis, standard bearer of the cross of Christ, had preached to them, made on them the sign of the cross, after which they had divided themselves, going to the four parts of the world, so the preaching of the cross of Christ, renewed by St. Francis, should be carried by him and by his brothers to the whole world, and that these brothers, after the fashion of the birds, should possess nothing of their own in this world, but commit their lives solely to the providence of God.

—From “Little Flowers of St. Francis.”

Teach me, O lark! with thee to gently rise,To exalt my soul and lift it to the skies.—Edmund Burke.

Teach me, O lark! with thee to gently rise,To exalt my soul and lift it to the skies.

Teach me, O lark! with thee to gently rise,

To exalt my soul and lift it to the skies.

—Edmund Burke.

In a valley, centuries ago,Grew a little fern leaf, green and slender,Veining delicate and fibers tender;Waving when the wind crept down so low;Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it,Playful sunbeams darted in and found it,Drops of dew stole in by night and crowned it,But no foot of man e’er trod that way;Earth was young and keeping holiday.Monster fishes swam the silent main,Stately forests waved their giant branches,Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches,Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain;Nature reveled in grand mysteries;But the little fern was not of these,Did not number with the hills and trees,Only grew and waved its wild sweet way,—No one came to note it day by day.Earth, one time, put on a frolic mood,Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motionOf the deep, strong currents of the ocean;Moved the plain and shook the haughty wood,Crushed the little fern in soft moist clay,Covered it, and hid it safe away.Oh, the long, long centuries since that day!Oh, the agony, oh, life’s bitter cost,Since that useless little fern was lost!Useless! Lost! There came a thoughtful manSearching Nature’s secrets, far and deep;From a fissure in a rocky steepHe withdrew a stone, o’er which there ranFairy pencilings, a quaint design,Veinings, leafage, fibers clear and fine,And the fern’s life lay in every line!So, I think, God hides some souls away,Sweetly to surprise us the last day.—Mary L. Bolles Branch.

In a valley, centuries ago,

Grew a little fern leaf, green and slender,

Veining delicate and fibers tender;

Waving when the wind crept down so low;

Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it,

Playful sunbeams darted in and found it,

Drops of dew stole in by night and crowned it,

But no foot of man e’er trod that way;

Earth was young and keeping holiday.

Monster fishes swam the silent main,Stately forests waved their giant branches,Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches,Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain;Nature reveled in grand mysteries;But the little fern was not of these,Did not number with the hills and trees,Only grew and waved its wild sweet way,—No one came to note it day by day.

Monster fishes swam the silent main,

Stately forests waved their giant branches,

Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches,

Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain;

Nature reveled in grand mysteries;

But the little fern was not of these,

Did not number with the hills and trees,

Only grew and waved its wild sweet way,—

No one came to note it day by day.

Earth, one time, put on a frolic mood,Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motionOf the deep, strong currents of the ocean;Moved the plain and shook the haughty wood,Crushed the little fern in soft moist clay,Covered it, and hid it safe away.Oh, the long, long centuries since that day!Oh, the agony, oh, life’s bitter cost,Since that useless little fern was lost!

Earth, one time, put on a frolic mood,

Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motion

Of the deep, strong currents of the ocean;

Moved the plain and shook the haughty wood,

Crushed the little fern in soft moist clay,

Covered it, and hid it safe away.

Oh, the long, long centuries since that day!

Oh, the agony, oh, life’s bitter cost,

Since that useless little fern was lost!

Useless! Lost! There came a thoughtful manSearching Nature’s secrets, far and deep;From a fissure in a rocky steepHe withdrew a stone, o’er which there ranFairy pencilings, a quaint design,Veinings, leafage, fibers clear and fine,And the fern’s life lay in every line!So, I think, God hides some souls away,Sweetly to surprise us the last day.

Useless! Lost! There came a thoughtful man

Searching Nature’s secrets, far and deep;

From a fissure in a rocky steep

He withdrew a stone, o’er which there ran

Fairy pencilings, a quaint design,

Veinings, leafage, fibers clear and fine,

And the fern’s life lay in every line!

So, I think, God hides some souls away,

Sweetly to surprise us the last day.

—Mary L. Bolles Branch.

The purest treasure mortal times affordIs spotless reputation: that away,Men are but gilded loam or painted clay.—Shakespeare.

The purest treasure mortal times affordIs spotless reputation: that away,Men are but gilded loam or painted clay.

The purest treasure mortal times afford

Is spotless reputation: that away,

Men are but gilded loam or painted clay.

—Shakespeare.

How surely the birds know their enemies! See how the wrens and robins and bluebirds pursue and scold the cat, while they take little or no notice of the dog! Even the swallow will fight the cat, and, relying too confidently upon its powers of flight, sometimes swoops down so near to its enemy that it is caught by a sudden stroke of the cat’s paw. The only case I know of in which our small birds fail to recognize their enemy is furnished by the shrike; apparently the little birds do not know that this modest-colored bird is an assassin. At least, I have never seen them scold or molest him, or utter any outcries at his presence, as they usually do at birds of prey.

But the birds have nearly all found out the trick of the jay, and when he comes sneaking through the trees in May and June in quest of eggs, he is quickly exposed and roundly abused. It is amusing to see the robins hustle him out of the tree which holds theirnest. They cry, “Thief! thief!” to the top of their voices as they charge upon him, and the jay retorts in a voice scarcely less complimentary as he makes off.

The jays have their enemies also, and need to keep an eye on their own eggs. It would be interesting to know if jays ever rob jays, or crows plunder crows; or is there honor among thieves even in the feathered tribes? I suspect the jay is often punished by birds which are otherwise innocent of nest robbing.

A jay. Illustrator credit: GLEESON.

One season I found a jay’s nest in a cedar on the side of a wooded ridge. It held five eggs, every one of which had been punctured. Apparently some bird had driven its sharp beak through their shells, with the sole intention of destroying them, for no part of the contents of the eggs had been removed. It looked like a case of revenge—as if some thrush orwarbler, whose nest had suffered at the hands of the jays, had watched its opportunity, and had in this way retaliated upon its enemies. An egg for an egg. The jays were lingering near, very demure and silent, and probably ready to join a crusade against nest robbers.

The great bugaboo of the birds is the owl. The owl snatches them from off their roosts at night, and gobbles up their eggs and young in their nests. He is a veritable ogre to them, and his presence fills them with consternation and alarm.

One season, to protect my early cherries, I placed a large stuffed owl amid the branches of the tree. Such a racket as there instantly began about my grounds is not pleasant to think upon. The orioles and robins fairly “shrieked out their affright.” The news instantly spread in every direction, and apparently every bird in town came to see that owl in the cherry tree, and every bird took a cherry, so that I lost more fruit than if I had left the owl indoors. With craning necks and horrified looks the birds alighted upon the branches, and between their screams would snatch off a cherry, as if the act was some relief to their feelings.

The chirp and chatter of the young of birds which build in concealed or inclosed places, like the woodpeckers, the house wren, the high-hoe, the oriole,etc., is in marked contrast to the silence of the fledgelings of most birds that build open and exposed nests. The young of the sparrows, warblers, flycatchers, thrushes, etc., never allow a sound to escape them; and on the alarm note of their parents being heard, sit especially close and motionless, while the young of chimney swallows, woodpeckers, and orioles are very noisy.

The owl, I suspect, thrusts its leg into the cavities of woodpeckers and into the pocket-like nest of the oriole, and clutches and brings forth the birds in its talons. In one case, a screech owl had thrust its claw into a cavity in a tree, and grasped the head of a red-headed woodpecker; being apparently unable to draw its prey forth, it had thrust its own round head into the hole, and in some way became fixed there, and had thus died with the woodpecker in its talons.

The life of birds is beset with dangers and mishaps of which we know little. One day, in my walk, I cameupon a goldfinch with the tip of one wing securely fastened to the feathers of its back, by what appeared to be the silk of some caterpillar. The bird, though uninjured, was completely crippled, and could not fly a stroke. Its little body was hot and panting in my hands as I carefully broke the fetter. Then it darted swiftly away with a happy cry.

A record of all the accidents and tragedies of bird life for a single season would show many curious incidents. A friend of mine opened his box stove one fall to kindle a fire in it, when he beheld in the black interior the desiccated forms of two bluebirds. The birds had probably taken refuge in the chimney during some cold spring storm, and had come down the pipe to the stove, from whence they were unable to ascend.

A peculiarly touching little incident of bird life occurred to a caged canary. It laid some eggs, and was so carried away by its feelings that it would offer food to the eggs, and chatter and twitter, trying, as it seemed, to encourage them to eat. The incident is hardly tragic, neither is it comic.

Certain birds nest in the vicinity of our houses and outbuildings, or even in and upon them, for protection from their enemies, but they often thus expose themselves to plague of the most deadly character.

I refer to the vermin with which their nests often swarm, and which kill the young before they are fledged. In a state of nature this probably never happens; at least I have never seen or heard of it happening to nests placed in trees or under rocks. It is the curse of civilization falling upon the birds which come too near man. The vermin is probably conveyed to the nest in hen’s feathers, or in straws and hairs picked up about the barn or henhouse. A robin’s nest will occasionally become an intolerable nuisance from the swarms upon swarms of minute vermin with which it is filled. The parent birds stem the tide as long as they can, but are often compelled to leave the young to their terrible fate.

One season a phœbe bird built on a projecting stone under the eaves of the house, and all appeared to go well till the young were nearly fledged, when the nest suddenly became a bit of purgatory. The birds kept their places till they could hold out no longer, when they leaped forth and fell dead upon the ground.

After a delay of a week or more, during which I imagine the parent birds purified themselves by every means known to them, the couple built another nest a few yards from the first, and proceeded to rear a second brood; but the new nest developed into thesame bed of torment that the first did, and the three young birds, nearly ready to fly, perished as they sat within it. The parent birds then left the place.

I imagine the smaller birds have an enemy in our native white-footed mouse, though I have not proof enough to convict him. But one season the nest of a chickadee which I was observing was broken up in a position where nothing but a mouse could have reached it. The bird had chosen a cavity in the limb of an apple tree which stood but a few yards from the house. The cavity was deep, and the entrance to it, which was ten feet from the ground, was small.

Barely light enough was admitted to enable one to make out the number of eggs, which was six, at the bottom of the dim interior. While one was peering in and trying to get his head out of his own light, the bird would startle him by a queer kind of puffing sound. She would not leave her nest like most birds, but really tried to blow, or scare, the intruder away; and after repeated experiments I could hardly refrain from jerking my head back when that little explosion of sound came up from the dark interior.

One night the nest was harried. A slight trace of hair or fur at the entrance led me to infer that some small animal was the robber.

A weasel might have done it, as they sometimes climb trees, but I doubt if either a squirrel or a rat could have passed the entrance.

A pair of the least flycatchers, the bird which is a small edition of the pewee, one season built their nest where I had them for many hours each day under my observation. The nest was a very snug and compact structure placed in the forks of a small maple about twelve feet from the ground. The season before a red squirrel had harried the nest of a wood thrush in this same tree, and I was apprehensive that he would serve the flycatchers the same trick; so, as I sat with my book in a summerhouse near by, I kept my loaded gun within easy reach.

One egg was laid, and the next morning, as I made my daily inspection of the nest, only a fragment of its empty shell was to be found. This I removed, mentally imprecating the rogue of a red squirrel. The birds were much disturbed by the event, but after much inspection of it and many consultations together, concluded, it seems, to try again.

Two more eggs were laid, when one day I heard the birds utter a sharp cry, and on looking up I saw a cat-bird perched upon the rim of the nest, hastily devouring the eggs. I soon regretted my precipitation inkilling her, because such interference is generally unwise. It turned out that she had a nest of her own with five eggs in a spruce tree near my window.

Then this pair of little flycatchers did what I had never seen birds do before: they pulled the nest to pieces and rebuilt it in a peach tree not many rods away, where a brood was successfully reared. The nest was here exposed to the direct rays of the noonday sun, and to shield her young when the heat was greatest, the mother-bird would stand above them with wings slightly spread, as other birds have been known to do under like circumstances.

Probably the darkest tragedy of the nest is enacted when a snake plunders it. All birds and animals, so far as I have observed, behave in a peculiar manner toward a snake. They seem to feel something of the same loathing toward it that the human species experience. The bark of a dog when he encounters a snake is different from that which he gives out on anyother occasion; it is a mingled note of alarm, inquiry, and disgust.

One day a tragedy was enacted a few yards from where I was sitting with a book: two song sparrows were trying to defend their nest against a black snake. The curious, interrogating note of a chicken who had suddenly come upon the scene in his walk first caused me to look up from my reading. There were the sparrows, with wings raised in a way peculiarly expressive of horror and dismay, rushing about a low clump of grass and bushes.

Then, looking more closely, I saw the glistening form of the black snake, and the quick movement of his head as he tried to seize the birds. The sparrows darted about and through the grass and weeds, trying to beat the snake off. Their tails and wings were spread, and, panting with the heat and desperate struggle, they presented a most singular spectacle. They uttered no cry, not a sound escaped them; they were plainly speechless with horror and dismay. Not once did they drop their wings, and the peculiar expression of those uplifted palms, as it were, I shall never forget.

It occurred to me that perhaps here was a case of attempted bird charming on the part of the snake, soI looked on from behind the fence. The birds charged the snake and harassed him from every side, but were evidently under no spell save that of courage in defending their nest.

Every moment or two I could see the head and neck of the serpent make a sweep at the birds, when the one struck at would fall back, and the other would renew the assault. There appeared to be little danger that the snake could strike and hold one of the birds, though I trembled for them, they were so bold and approached so near to the snake’s head. Time and again he sprang at them but without success. How the poor things panted, and held up their wings appealingly!

Then the snake glided off, barely escaping the stone which I hurled at him. I found the nest rifled and deranged; whether it had contained eggs or young I know not. The male sparrow had cheered me many a day with his song, and I blamed myself for not having rushed at once to the rescue, when the arch enemy was upon him.

There is probably little truth in the popular notion that snakes charm birds. The black snake is the most subtle of our snakes, and I have never seen him have any but young, helpless birds in his mouth.

—John Burroughs.

O, holy St. Joseph! in thee we confide,Be thou our protector, our father, our guide;The flowers of our innocent childhood we twineIn a fragrant white garland of love at thy shrine.St. Joseph, who guided the Child on His way,O, guide us and guard us and bless us, we pray!Long ago didst thou teach the Lord Jesus to speak,And thine arms were His strength when His footsteps, were weak;So lend us thy help in the days of our youthSo teach us to walk in the pathway of truth!St. Joseph, Christ’s early protector and stay,Protect us and save us from evil, we pray!When the years glowing o’er us shall smolder away,When their ashes down-drifting, shall crown us with gray,Still loyal and true may we keep to our vowTo honor our saint as we honor him now!St. Joseph, who guided the Child on His way,O, guide us at last to His presence, we pray!—H. W.

O, holy St. Joseph! in thee we confide,

Be thou our protector, our father, our guide;

The flowers of our innocent childhood we twine

In a fragrant white garland of love at thy shrine.

St. Joseph, who guided the Child on His way,

O, guide us and guard us and bless us, we pray!

Long ago didst thou teach the Lord Jesus to speak,And thine arms were His strength when His footsteps, were weak;So lend us thy help in the days of our youthSo teach us to walk in the pathway of truth!St. Joseph, Christ’s early protector and stay,Protect us and save us from evil, we pray!

Long ago didst thou teach the Lord Jesus to speak,

And thine arms were His strength when His footsteps, were weak;

So lend us thy help in the days of our youth

So teach us to walk in the pathway of truth!

St. Joseph, Christ’s early protector and stay,

Protect us and save us from evil, we pray!

When the years glowing o’er us shall smolder away,When their ashes down-drifting, shall crown us with gray,Still loyal and true may we keep to our vowTo honor our saint as we honor him now!St. Joseph, who guided the Child on His way,O, guide us at last to His presence, we pray!

When the years glowing o’er us shall smolder away,

When their ashes down-drifting, shall crown us with gray,

Still loyal and true may we keep to our vow

To honor our saint as we honor him now!

St. Joseph, who guided the Child on His way,

O, guide us at last to His presence, we pray!

—H. W.

Hark, the spring! She callsWith a thousand voices’Mid the echoing forest hallsOne great heart rejoices.Hills, where young lambs bound,Whiten o’er with daisies;Flag flowers light the lower ground,Where the old steer grazes.Meadows laugh, flower-gay;Every breeze that passesWaves the seed-cloud’s gleaming grayO’er the greener grasses.O thou spring! be strong,Exquisite newcomer!And the onset baffle longOf advancing summer!—Aubrey de Vere.

Hark, the spring! She callsWith a thousand voices’Mid the echoing forest hallsOne great heart rejoices.

Hark, the spring! She calls

With a thousand voices

’Mid the echoing forest halls

One great heart rejoices.

Hills, where young lambs bound,Whiten o’er with daisies;Flag flowers light the lower ground,Where the old steer grazes.

Hills, where young lambs bound,

Whiten o’er with daisies;

Flag flowers light the lower ground,

Where the old steer grazes.

Meadows laugh, flower-gay;Every breeze that passesWaves the seed-cloud’s gleaming grayO’er the greener grasses.

Meadows laugh, flower-gay;

Every breeze that passes

Waves the seed-cloud’s gleaming gray

O’er the greener grasses.

O thou spring! be strong,Exquisite newcomer!And the onset baffle longOf advancing summer!

O thou spring! be strong,

Exquisite newcomer!

And the onset baffle long

Of advancing summer!

—Aubrey de Vere.

I will now tell you a story of King Robert Bruce during his wanderings. His adventures are as entertaining as those which men invent for story books, with this advantage, that they are all true.

About the time when the Bruce was yet at the head of but few men, Sir Aymer de Valence, who was Earl of Pembroke, together with John of Lorn, came into Galloway, each of them being at the head of a large body of men.

John of Lorn had a bloodhound with him, which it was said had formerly belonged to Robert Bruce himself; and having been fed by the king with his own hands, it became attached to him and would follow his footsteps anywhere, as dogs are well known to trace their masters’ steps, whether they be bloodhounds or not. By means of this hound, John of Lorn thought he should certainly find out Bruce, and take revenge on him for the death of his relation Comyn.

When these two armies advanced upon King Robert, he at first thought of fighting the English earl; but becoming aware that John of Lorn was moving round with another large body to attack him in the rear, he resolved to avoid fighting at that time, lest he should be oppressed by numbers. For this purpose, the king divided the men he had with him into three bodies, and commanded them to retreat by three different ways, thinking the enemy would not know which party to pursue. He also appointed a place at which they were to assemble again.

When John of Lorn came to the place where the army of Bruce had been thus divided, the bloodhound took his course after one of these divisions, neglecting the other two, and then John of Lorn knew that the king must be in that party; so he also made no pursuit after the two other divisions, but, with all his men, followed that which the dog pointed out.

The king again saw that he was followed by a large body, and being determined to escape from them if possible, he made all the people who were with him disperse themselves different ways, thinking thus that the enemy must needs lose trace of him. He kept only one man along with him, and that was his own foster brother, or the son of his nurse.

When John of Lorn came to the place where Bruce’s companions had dispersed themselves, the bloodhound, after it had snuffed up and down for a little, quitted the footsteps of all the other fugitives, and ran barking upon the track of two men out of the whole number. Then John of Lorn knew that one of these two must be King Robert. Accordingly, he commanded five of his men to chase after him, and either make him prisoner or slay him.

The Highlanders started off accordingly, and ran so fast that they gained sight of Robert and his foster brother. The king asked his companion what help he could give him, and his foster brother answered he was ready to do his best. So these two turned on the five men of John of Lorn and killed them all.

By this time Bruce was very much fatigued, and yet they dared not sit down to take any rest; for whenever they stopped for an instant, they heard the cry of the bloodhound behind them, and knew by that that their enemies were coming up fast after them. At length they came to a wood through which ran a small river. Then Bruce said to his foster brother, “Let us wade down this stream for a great way, instead of going straight across, and so this unhappy hound will lose the scent; for if we were once clearof him, I should not be afraid of getting away from the pursuers.”

Accordingly, the king and his attendant walked a great way down the stream, taking care to keep their feet in the water, which could not retain any scent where they had stepped. Then they came ashore on the farther side from the enemy, and went deep into the wood.

In the meanwhile, the hound led John of Lorn straight to the place where the king went into the water, but there the dog began to be puzzled, not knowing where to go next; for running water cannot retain the scent of a man’s foot, like that which remains on turf. So John of Lorn, seeing the dog was at fault, as it is called, that is, had lost the track of that which he pursued, he gave up the chase and returned to join with Aymer de Valence.

King Robert’s adventures were not yet ended. His foster brother and he walked on in hopes of coming to some habitation. At length, in the midst of the forest,they met with three men who looked like thieves or ruffians. They were well armed, and one of them bore a sheep on his back, which it seemed as if they had just stolen.

They saluted the king civilly; and he, replying to their salutations, asked them where they were going. The men answered they were seeking for Robert Bruce, for that they intended to join with him.

The king answered that he would conduct them where they would find the Scottish king. Then the man who had spoken changed countenance, and Bruce, who looked sharply at him, began to suspect that the ruffian guessed who he was, and that he and his companions had some design against his person, in order to gain the reward which had been offered for his life.

So he said to them, “My good friends, as we are not well acquainted with each other, you must go before us, and we will follow near to you.”

“You have no occasion to suspect any harm from us,” answered the man.

“Neither do I suspect any,” said Bruce; “but this is the way in which I choose to travel.”

The men did as he commanded, and thus they traveled till they came together to a waste and ruinouscottage, where the men proposed to dress some part of the sheep, which their companion was carrying. The king was glad to hear of food; but he insisted that there should be two fires kindled,—one for himself and his foster brother at one end of the house, the other at the other end for their three companions.

The men did as he desired. They broiled a quarter of mutton for themselves, and gave another to the king and his attendant. They were obliged to eat it without bread or salt; but as they were very hungry, they were glad to get food in any shape, and partook of it very heartily.

Then so heavy a drowsiness fell on King Robert, that, for all the danger he was in, he could not resist an inclination to sleep. But first he desired his foster brother to watch while he slept, for he had great suspicion of their new acquaintances. His foster brother promised to keep awake, and did his best to keep his word. But the king had not been long asleep ere his foster brother fell into a deep slumber also, for he had undergone as much fatigue as the king.

When the three villains saw the king and his attendant asleep they made signs to each other, and, rising up at once, drew their swords with the purpose to kill them both. But the king slept lightly, and for as littlenoise as the traitors made, he was awakened by it, and starting up, drew his sword and went to meet them. At the same moment he pushed his foster brother with his foot to awaken him, and he got on his feet; but ere he had got his eyes cleared to see what was about to happen, one of the ruffians slew him.

The king was now alone, one man against three, and in the greatest danger of his life; but his amazing strength, and the good armor which he wore, freed him from this great peril, and he killed the three men, one after another. He then left the cottage, very sorrowful for the death of his faithful foster brother, and took his direction toward the place where he had appointed his men to assemble.

It was now near night, and the place of meeting being a farmhouse, Bruce went boldly into it, where he found the mistress, an old, true-hearted Scotswoman, sitting alone. Upon seeing a stranger enter, she asked him who he was. The king answered that he was a traveler, who was journeying through the country.

“All travelers,” answered the good woman, “are welcome here for the sake of one.”

“And who is that one,” said the king, “for whose sake you make all travelers welcome?”

“It is our rightful king, Robert the Bruce,” answered the mistress, “who is the lawful lord of this country; and although he is now pursued with hounds and horns, I hope to live to see him king over all Scotland.”

“Since you love him so well, dame,” said the king, “know that you see him before you. I am Robert the Bruce.”

“You!” said the good woman, “and wherefore are you thus alone?—where are all your men?”

“I have none with me at this moment,” answered Bruce, “and therefore I must travel alone.”

“But that shall not be,” said the brave old dame; “for I have two sons, gallant and trusty men, who shall be your servants for life and death.”

So she brought her two sons, and though she well knew the dangers to which she exposed them, she made them swear fidelity to the king; and they afterward became high officers in his service.

Now the loyal old woman was getting everything ready for the king’s supper, when suddenly there was a great trampling of horses heard round the house.They thought it must be some of the English, or John of Lorn’s men, and the good wife called upon her sons to fight to the last for King Robert. But shortly after they heard the voice of the good Lord James of Douglas, and of Edward Bruce, the king’s brother, who had come with a hundred and fifty horsemen to this farmhouse.

Robert the Bruce, forgetting hunger and weariness, began to inquire where the enemy who had pursued them so long had taken up their abode for the night; “for,” said he, “as they must suppose us totally scattered and fled, it is likely that they will think themselves quite secure, and keep careless watch.”

“That is very true,” answered James of Douglas, “for I passed a village where there are two hundred of them quartered, who had placed no sentinels; and if you have a mind, we may surprise them, and do them more mischief than they have done us.”

Then there was nothing but mount and ride; and as the Scots came by surprise on the body of English whom Douglas had mentioned, and rushed suddenly into the village where they were quartered, they easily dispersed and cut them to pieces.

—Sir Walter Scott.

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