Sophie Jewett...........................................................................................................................................1

A Child of Long Ago...............................................................................................................................1

The Young Troubadour ............................................................................................................................3

The Young Soldier ...................................................................................................................................4

To Arms! ..................................................................................................................................................6

The New Road.........................................................................................................................................8

"The Other Life is as My Life"................................................................................................................9

Father and Son.......................................................................................................................................11

"Lady Poverty" .......................................................................................................................................12

The Bird Sisters.....................................................................................................................................14

Brother Wolf..........................................................................................................................................16

The Three Robbers .................................................................................................................................18

Nurse and Patient...................................................................................................................................20

With the Crusaders .................................................................................................................................21

The Christmas at Greccio .......................................................................................................................24

La Verna .................................................................................................................................................26

The Troubadour's Last Song..................................................................................................................28

Under the arched gate of a city wall, a group of people stood watching the road that wound down the

mountain and off across the plain. The road lay dusty and white in September sunshine, and the eyes of the

watchers followed it easily until it hid itself in a vast forest, that filled half the valley. On the point where

The crowd was gay, but not noisy. There were few words and long silences, as always when people are

waiting and expecting. Among all the eyes that watched the sunny road that day, the most earnest were those

of Madonna Pica Bernardone, and the merriest were those of her little boy Francis, for the company was

gathered to see the homecoming of Messer Piero Bernardone, the richest merchant of Assisi, and the lady

Pica was his wife, and little Francis was his son. The others were friends and neighbours of Piero. Some were

rich customers, who wondered if the merchant had found for them the beautiful stuffs which they had

ordered. Certain of the company were only idlers, glad enough to have something happen to break the dulness

Assisi, at whose gate the watchers stood, lies far across the sea in beautiful Italy. It is a little city, built on a

mountain side, with a great wall all about it, and a castle on the height above, and it looks very much as it did

on that September afternoon more than seven hundred years ago, when Francis Bernardone waited for his

father. Inside the walls, the stone houses are crowded together, making narrow, crooked streets, so steep,

often, that no carriage can drive through them. Some streets, indeed, are simply long flights of stone steps,

where the children play, and the patient donkeys climb up, carrying heavy loads of charcoal or faggots. But,

though the streets are narrow, Assisi is not gloomy. Everywhere there is sunshine and bright colour. Above

the brown tiled roofs rise tall green cypress trees; over a bit of garden wall trail red trumpetcreepers and

blue morningglories; even the windowsills are gay with pink and red geraniums. In the open square the

marketgardeners sell ripe grapes and plums and figs, covered over with fresh vineleaves. Outside the city

gates, all the world seems like a fair garden. The hillsides are covered with olive trees, whose grey leaves

twinkle like silver when the wind blows through them. Some of the trees look almost as old as the city walls,

for their trunks are only hollow shells through which one sees the blue sky, though their tops still bear fruit

bravely every year. From the foot of the mountain stretches the river valley, bright with wheat fields and tall

corn, and vineyards where the vines hang in heavy garlands from one mulberry tree to another. Between the

rows of trees, in the shadow of the vines, great white oxen move slowly, dragging a clumsy, oldfashioned

plough; and down a sunken road that cuts through vineyards and cornfields go strong, brown peasant women

Little Francis Bernardone must have trotted up and down the same steep streets, and have played in the same

squares that one sees today; but the valley over which he looked, on this autumn afternoon, contained fewer

vineyards and cornfields, and far more forest trees. Francis wondered what might lie hidden in the forest, for

The hour grew late, and the tired watchers shaded their eyes from the low sun that shone across the valley

from the western mountains. Suddenly Francis shouted aloud, and, in a minute, the shout was taken up by

many voices: "He is coming! He is coming!" They saw, at first, only a cloud of dust, moving along the road;

but soon, horses and riders could be discerned, in a long line, halfhidden still by the dust that rose in their

As the horsemen climbed the hill to the city gate, the sight was more like the coming of a prince than of a

merchant. Piero Bernardone rode ahead, in a company of soldiers, well armed and mounted upon fine horses.

Behind this group followed a train of packhorses and mules, heavily loaded with the rich goods that the

merchant was bringing home. Last of all came another band of soldiers, some mounted, some on foot. All this

escort was customary for a rich merchant in those days, for the roads were often held by wandering bands of

soldiers or highway robbers. Piero Bernardone needed many swords to defend the silks and velvets, gold

embroideries and jewels which he had bought in the great market towns of France and northern Italy.

At the gate of Assisi, Piero Bernardone dismounted gravely. He kissed the Lady Pica and the little Francis; he

greeted his friends, somewhat coldly, perhaps, for he was a proud, hard man; but he turned a second time to

kiss his boy, whom he loved dearly. Then Francis knew the proudest minute of his little life; for he was

mounted upon his father's horse, while Piero and the Lady Pica walked beside him, and all the company,

talking eagerly, entered the gate of San Pietro, and wound slowly up the stony streets that led to Piero

Inside the house, that night, Francis listened with wide eyes to his father's stories, for the merchant had

always interesting adventures to tell. He had visited the great fairs, to which other merchants came, from

Greece, from Africa, from Syria, from Germany and England. While he bought and exchanged goods, he

heard news from all over the world, a world in which news travelled slowly, for there were no newspapers,

On his way homeward the merchant was a welcome guest at the castles of knights and princes. Noble ladies

bought his silks and laces, famous warriors begged him for tidings of wars in other lands, and all listened to

Of all the merchant's hearers none was so eager as his son Francis. For him the stern Piero remembered all

the strange and beautiful tales that he heard by the way; stories of Charlemagne and Roland; of King Arthur

and his Knights of the Round Table. For him he learned the gay songs of the wandering poets, Troubadours,

as they were called, who sang in the courts of kings and in the halls of nobles. Their songs were of brave

knights in shining armour, and of ladies with white hands, beautiful eyes, and sweet, unforgettable names.

Piero Bernardone cared little for the courtly words of these Troubadour songs, but, as he listened, he

remembered the clear, childish voice at home, always quick to repeat new verses and new melodies. So Piero

was glad when he heard the same song many times of an evening; and, next day, in the saddle, while he

thought of prices and profits, his rough voice sang, over and over, daintily fashioned rhymes in praise of

Francis learned all the stories and all the songs. Especially he loved the adventures of King Arthur and Sir

Gawain, Sir Tristram and Sir Lancelot. On this September evening he listened till his big eyes were dim with

sleep, and, all night long, he dreamed wonderful dreams, in which he became a great man, not a merchant

As Francis Bernardone grew from a boy to a man, he made friends with a company of gay youths, the sons of

the greatest and richest families of Assisi. Their fathers were counts, and dukes, and princes, and the lads

were vain of the names they bore, and of the palaces where they lived. It was a lawless company, bent on

having a good time, and thinking nothing of the comfort of other people. The pranks of these young nobles

were so reckless and, sometimes, so wicked that the good people of Assisi lived in terror of what they might

The youths welcomed Francis into their fellowship because, though he had not a noble name, he had splendid

clothes to wear, and much money to spend; and because, among them all, no one laughed so merrily or sang

so sweetly as the merchant's son. The hours always went more gaily when Francis was of the party, for it

made one feel happy just to look at his bright face. Piero Bernardone was proud that his son should be the

friend and pet of these young lords, but the lad's gentle mother grieved that her kindhearted little boy should

come to be a wild and wicked man. Her heart ached in the night, when the noisy group went laughing and

shouting through the streets, and she could hear the voice of Francis, sweeter and louder than the rest, singing

The mother would listen till the laughter and singing were far away and faint, and the last sound was always

the voice of her boy, which, indeed, she seemed to hear long after all was silent in the narrow street. When

the neighbours complained that the conduct of the boys was too bad to be endured, the merchant only

laughed. "It is the way of the world," he said. "Francis is no worse than the others. Boys must be boys. What

would you have?" But his wife would speak softly, with tears in her gentle eyes: "Wait, I have great hope that

he will yet become a good Christian." The mother knew all that was best in the boy. She thought: "However

careless and wild he may be, he has a kind and loving heart." And she was right. In his gayest moments

But one who is thoughtless is always in danger of being cruel. One day a man, ragged and hungry, crept in at

the open door of Piero Bernardone's shop. Piero was absent, but Francis was spreading out beautiful silks and

velvets before two customers, for he sometimes sold goods for his father. Standing in his dirty, brown rags

among the red and purple stuffs and the gold embroideries, the beggar cried: "In the name of God, give me

something, for I am starving!" Francis, whose mind was intent on his bargain, impatiently sent the man away.

A moment later, he was sorry. "What would I have done," he said to himself, "if that man had asked me for

money in the name of a count or baron? What ought I to do when he comes in the name of God?" Leaving the

astonished customers in the shop, the boy ran out into the street, found the beggar and gave him all the money

Despite his gay life, Francis had times of being thoughtful, and dissatisfied with himself. As he went up and

down the streets of Assisi, well dressed and well fed, he saw people sick and hungry and ragged, glad to

receive a crust of bread or an old cloak. "These people," thought Francis, "would live for months on the

money that I waste in one day." Sometimes he would throw his purse to a starving man, or his bright cloak to

a ragged one, and his merry friends would laugh and jest at him for his folly. Then they would all ride away

He did not forget his old love for the stories of King Arthur and the Round Table. He disliked more and more

the thought of being a merchant. He wanted to travel, to see faraway countries, but he wanted to go as a

soldier, not as a tradesman. He wanted to storm great castles, to rescue fair ladies, to ride at the head of a

fearless band of knights. He loved the knights of the old stories, not alone because they were strong in battle,

but because they were gracious in speech, true of their word, and kind to all the unfortunate and weak.

Perhaps it was his love for gentle manners and brave deeds that kept Francis from becoming altogether

Besides the songs of love and of battle, he had learned wise little verses about the duties of knighthood, and

sometimes, when he and his friends had been most rude and unknightly, the old rhymes came back to his

There were many and terrible wars in Italy in the thirteenth century, and the chance of trying his fortune as a

Only fifteen miles away from Assisi stands a larger city, called Perugia. It also is built upon a mountain, and

the two towns seem to smile at each other across the green valley. But for hundreds of years there were only

bitter looks and hatred between the two. Perugia, higher and stronger, lay like a dragon, ready to spring upon

her small but furious enemy. Assisi, like a lion's cub, was always ready to fight. Sometimes the lion was

When Francis Bernardone was about twenty years old, there was war between the great dragon and the little

lion. Down from one mountain came the Perugian army. Down from the other came that of Assisi. With the

army of Assisi rode Francis and most of the company of friends who had been so merry together in times of

peace. They were gay as ever, and eager to see what a real battle might be like.

The armies met in the plain, and fought by the river side, near a tiny town called Ponte San Giovanni, the

This time the Perugians were too strong for the Assisans, and the young soldier's first combat was a defeat.

One day taught him all the horror of a field of battle. He saw men wounded and dying. He heard the terrified

cries of riderless horses. He suffered from blinding sun and parching thirst. War, that he had thought so noble

The army of Assisi lost heavily that day. Many men were slain, many were made prisoners, and one of the

prisoners was Francis Bernardone. He was too tired, too hungry and too thirsty to feel anything keenly except

the need of sleep and food; yet he wondered how it had all happened. Could he be the same man who had

He knew that he had not been a coward. He had not even been afraid, yet here he was unarmed and captive.

Because of his beautiful dress, and because of his courtly manners, Francis was placed, not among the

common soldiers, but among the nobles. For a whole year he was a prisoner of war. It must have been a sad

change from the free, wild life in Assisi. Captives, even if of noble rank, were not softly treated in old times;

and, though Francis and his companions may not have suffered serious hardships, the long confinement was,

in itself, a cruel thing to bear. On Francis Bernardone, however, his misfortune sat lightly. The army of

Perugia could not make a captive of his fancy. His fellowprisoners were astonished to hear him tell of his

hopes and plans for the future; of the battles he should fight; of the fame he should win; of the beautiful ladies

who should smile on him. The brave knights whom he admired, Gawain, Tristram and Lancelot, had

sometimes fallen into prison, but had won their way out again, to fight better than before. So Francis still

dreamed of war and glory, and boasted in his pride: "You will see that, some day, all the world will adore

Though he was proud and boastful, Francis was still gentlehearted, and quick to feel sympathy for all who

were unhappy. Among the prisoners of war was one man so vain and illtempered that his companions would

have nothing to do with him. The unfortunate creature sat gloomily apart, with a black frown on his face, and

with black thoughts in his mind. The songs and jests and games with which the others whiled away the long

hours made him seem all the lonelier in his silent corner. The sight of the sad, bitter face was more than

Francis could bear. Many times he slipped away from the noisy group of his comrades to speak cheerily to

the solitary knight, and, little by little, with the friendliness that no one was ever known to resist, he won the

heart of the miserable man. Through the goodwill of the boy whom everybody loved, the victim and his

tormentors in the end became friends once more, and there was peace in the great prison.

All through the long winter, from across the valley, the sad eyes of the Lady Pica watched the towers of

Perugia. In her heart she questioned what might have been her boy's fate. Was he ill, and suffering and

lonely? When would he come back to her? She seemed still to hear him singing, as on the morning when he

If the breeze that swept down the long valley from Perugia could have carried the prisoner's merry voice, the

In prison or out of it, the heart of Francis of Assisi was always the heart of the poet, the Troubadour. Because

his companions remembered gratefully the songs and laughter that brightened their captivity, the story of his

At last there came a day when the prisoners were set free and Francis could return to his home. The wide

valley, with its shining rivers, the far blue mountains and the green forest road must have been welcome to

eyes that, for a long year, had looked at the world through prison windows. We may be certain that Piero and

Pica Bernardone were watching for their son, and that all the neighbours made merry at his coming. We

know that his gay young friends received him joyfully and that the old life of feasting, drinking and rioting

began again. Perhaps, in his delight at being free once more, Francis was more reckless than ever. At any

rate, it is certain that, a short time after his return to Assisi, he suddenly became seriously ill. When, after

long days of illness, he began to crawl about slowly, weak and pale, and leaning upon a stick, he was

strangely unlike himself. Instead of being happy to be out of doors again, instead of frolicking with his

friends, he was silent and sad at heart. He wondered why he cared so little for the feasts and games and songs

that he had delighted in only a few weeks before. Now, they did not interest him. It seemed to him that a man

ought to have something better to do than simply to eat and drink, and wear fine clothes. Because of his own

pain and feebleness he felt sorrier than ever before for the lame, and blind, and hungry beggars who came to

As he listened to the talk in the marketplace by day, and in his father's house at evening, he heard many

stories of the wars. Men told how houses were burned, fields and vineyards trampled and ruined; how women

and children and helpless old men were killed, or left to die of hunger and cold. When he lay sleepless at

night, he seemed to see again the battlefield of San Giovanni, and the faces of cruel men attacking, and of

miserable victims wounded and falling. In these hours Francis doubted if war could be the glorious thing it

But when his friends began to tell him of new fighting in the south of Italy, and of a company of soldiers who

were going from Assisi to join the army of a famous knight, called Walter of Brienne, all was changed. The

old love for battle and glory woke up in his heart, and Francis made haste to grow strong again that he might

These were exciting days for the invalid. The colour came back to his cheeks and his eyes danced with joy at

sight of the rich clothes he was to wear, the beautiful horse he was to ride, the bright shield he was to carry.

He forgot that he was but a page, and that his first fight had ended in defeat. He dreamed of winning great

battles; of marrying a beautiful princess; of living in a magnificent palace, or riding to the wars at the head of

Assisi was full of noise and battle in these days. Companies of soldiers rode through the narrow streets so

recklessly that the folk on foot hurried into doorways, and stood openmouthed with fear while the riders

passed. In the marketplace men talked in eager groups. The voices were loud and excited, but louder still

rang out the sharp blows of hammer on anvil, for every smith who knew how to make or to mend armour was

busy from morning to night. Furnaces stood in the open square, where the fires looked pale in the sunshine.

Gay esquires brought from their masters bent or broken pieces of fine wrought steel, common soldiers

brought their own clumsier armour; and the small boys of the city stood in admiring circles about the

sounding anvils, and thought that, next to being a soldier, one would like to be a smith.

All this hurry of preparation was strong medicine to Francis. He forgot that he had been sick. He forgot that

war had ever looked an evil thing to him. With his friends he was once more the gayest of companions, and

he needed no urging to sing to them, to their hearts' content. Over and over he sang:

Francis seemed to have become more boastful and more gay than ever, so that even his friends wondered at

him, and asked him laughingly: "What is it that makes you so merry?" and he answered proudly: "I know that

Vain as he was, however, Francis never quite forgot that brave deeds and not fine garments make a good

soldier. Among the company of knights who were going from Assisi, there was one who had for years been a

great fighter, but who had suffered misfortune, and was now so poor that his clothing was actually ragged. To

him Francis gave his own new coat and mantle, and the other accepted the gift quite simply, knowing that

When the goodbyes were said and the horsemen clattered out of the city gate, no heart in all the company

His mother watched him with grave eyes, remembering how many times she had seen the towers of Perugia

fade into the red sky at sunset, and had prayed that her boy might come back to her. Now, he was going

again, not to Perugia, but far to the south, to a country that she had never known. She wondered how he could

Francis and his fellowsoldiers were to spend the first night in Spoleto, a city about twenty miles south of

Assisi, on the way to Rome. The road ran along at the foot of the mountain, sometimes through forests of oak

and beech and walnut trees, sometimes between olive orchards and vineyards. Presently it struck across the

In the square of Foligno, Francis had often stood with his father, selling goods at the fairs. Today he held his

head high as he rode through the familiar marketplace. He thought: "I shall come back a famous soldier, and

I will never, never sell things at the fair again." He blushed with pride when some one in the street pointed

him out to a companion, saying: "That young man, who is dressed and mounted like a lord, is the son of

At Foligno the company halted to eat and drink, and to rest through the hottest hours of the day. When they

were in the saddle again, and had left the city gates behind them, Francis no longer rode superbly, with his

chin in the air. Instead, he went silently, with drooping head, and let his horse lag behind the others along the

level stretch of road. He could not himself have told what was the matter; nothing had happened; the woods

were as green and the sunshine as bright as in the morning, but he who had been so proud and gay a few

hours earlier felt strangely weary and sick at heart. He lingered to let his horse drink from the clear, little

river, Clitumnus, that comes dancing down from the mountain and glitters across the plain, but not even the

song of the water made him merry. His comrades noticed his silence, but they were all too deeply interested

in their own plans and hopes to think of anything else. In the late afternoon they entered the glorious oak

forest that filled the ravine where Spoleto lies at the end of the Umbrian valley. Beyond, their way would be

through a narrow mountain pass where, over and over again, armies had fought fiercely to hold the road to

Rome. Deep in the cool woods, the birds were singing, and, for the first time in his life, it seemed to Francis

Perhaps he had not grown strong after his long illness, and so could not bear the fatigue of the hard saddle

ride. Whatever the reason may have been, it is certain that, when the party reached Spoleto, Francis took to

And Francis had no wish to follow them. As once before, but this time more powerfully and surely, there had

come upon him a great horror of a soldier's life. As he lay burning with fever and sleepless with pain, all his

dreams of glory faded. Instead of knights, with shining armour and bright banners, he seemed to see women

weeping, little children begging for bread, beautiful cities ruined and desolate.

We do not know how he made his way home. It was a strange and sorry journey, and, at the end of it, he met

with ridicule from those who had seen him ride away so bravely to seek his fortune as a soldier. But if his

thoughtless friends mocked him, and his father and brother reproached him, his mother was glad to welcome

The first days after his return were the most sorrowful that Francis had ever known. Though he was sure that

he had decided rightly, it pained him sorely to know that his friends thought him weak, or, perhaps, even

cowardly. Besides being hurt, he was puzzled, not knowing what he ought to do next. A week ago his path

had lain clear before him, like the white road in the valley; now it had lost itself in a tangled forest. We do not

know how long his trouble lasted, nor what he was doing in these dreary weeks; but we know that, by and by,

he began to see plainly again, and all his doubts, and puzzles vanished. It was as if he had found his way

through the forest and saw the path that he must take, a narrow path and rough, a lonely path, but straight to

follow. He did not know that in a few years hundreds of fellowtravellers were to come and ask that they

might walk with him along that narrow way; that instead of being, as he had dreamed he might, Francis

Bernardone, the most famous knight in Italy, he should become Brother Francis, the man whom all men

loved. All that Francis knew was that, in the place of his old love for a soldier's life and his old desire to

become a great prince, had come a new love and a new desire: a love for all the ragged and hungry and sick

and sorrowful folk in the world, and a desire to feed, and clothe, and heal and comfort them all. This new

feeling was very different from his former pity for the poor. He had always been pitiful and generous, glad to

give gifts like a patron; now he was like a lover, with a love that seemed to him big enough to include

everybody in Assisi, everybody in the wide world. And Francis was happy again. His friends who had seen

him, after he came back from Spoleto, pale and sick, restless and disappointed, saw his face brighten, and

heard him singing as of old. "Francis Bernardone is like himself once more," they thought. But when they

found that he no longer cared for their suppers and their games, they said: "How stupid he is!" and they left

About this time, Francis made a journey to Rome. Perhaps his mother hoped that a change would bring back

his strength; perhaps Piero hoped that, seeing many people and hearing news of the war, his son might again

be fired with soldierly ambition. Francis himself longed to see the city where so many saints and martyrs had

lived and died, and where, he thought, he should find wise and holy men to tell how he might carry out his

It was strange to him to travel again over the road to Spoleto, yet he was far happier in spirit than on that

earlier journey. South of Spoleto, the way was new to him, though he came to know every foot of it, a few

In the thirteenth century, as in the twentieth, all travellers to Rome were eager to visit the Church of St. Peter,

but, in the thirteenth century, the church itself was not the one whose vast dome we see today. It was an

older church that Francis Bernardone sought out, but it stood on the same spot, and it must have been

exceedingly beautiful. To Francis it seemed the most sacred place in the world, as he walked up the great

nave, between the long rows of columns, and as he knelt to pray before the altar. But when he stood again in

the church porch, he noticed the crowd of wretched, dirty human beings who clamoured for alms, pulling at

the garments and crying in the ears of all who entered the door. As he looked at them and listened to them his

eyes filled with tears, and all the sunshine seemed to fade out of the bright Roman sky. "What does it mean?"

he asked himself. "Here, in Rome, where there are so many men rich, and wise, and holy, is there no one to

take care of all these miserable creatures?" In the shade of a column, a little apart from the others, a beggar

was crouching who neither cried to the passersby, nor clutched at their cloaks. He only stretched out a thin

hand, and looked wistfully up into their faces. Francis stood long watching this man. No one gave to him, no

one seemed even to see him. The beggar's face looked weary and hopeless, and from time to time the thin

hand dropped to his knee. Still Francis watched. He forgot all about the crowds of people. He forgot

everything. He was wondering what it must be like to sit from morning till night, ragged and weary, begging

for one's daily bread. Suddenly, acting as he always did on the moment's impulse, Francis spoke to the silent

beggar and led him away to a deserted corner at the further end of the portico. He gave the man a piece of

money and, with no explanation, proposed to exchange clothes with him. The beggar stood stupefied as

Francis began to pull off his own rich cloak. It may be that he thought the boy a criminal trying to disguise

himself; it may be that he thought him mad. Whatever he thought, he was glad enough to trade his tattered

beggar's dress for clothing such as he had sometimes fingered, wonderingly, but had never even hoped to

wear. What became of the man we do not know, but Francis, wrapped in a tattered, dirty cloak, went back, to

Perhaps it was a foolish thing to do, but, at any rate, the hunger and weariness of that strange day made

Francis understand better than ever before the suffering of the poor, and because he understood, he was the

After this one day of a beggar's life, Francis was sure that no service in the world could be too low for him to

do gladly, and no human being too revolting for him to touch. The most hideous cripple by the roadside

seemed to him friend and brother, and his only grief was that he could not make them all understand his love

This joy and confidence lasted all through his journey home. Spoleto was not gloomy this time, and the birds

in its oak woods sang to him merrily. As he came up the familiar Umbrian valley, until he met the little river

Tescio on its bright, zigzag way, Monte Subasio stood above Assisi rosered in the sunset, and the walls of

the city shone like transparent glass, looking to the eyes of Francis like the walls of the New Jerusalem.

In the weeks that followed, it seemed to Francis that simply loving his fellowmen made all life joyous and

He was riding across the valley toward Assisi, and neared a little hospital for lepers, where he had often

stopped with gifts of money. His heart was full of sorrow for these sufferers from the most terrible of all

diseases, and he thought: "I will go in, today, and leave something for them." Outside the gate of the

hospital, crouched against the wall in the sunshine, one of the lepers sat to ask alms of passing travellers. The

poor man was covered with sores, and revolting to look upon. At sight of him, Francis felt a sickening sense

of disgust and horror. He drew his purse hastily from his belt and, tossing it to the leper, rode on as fast as his

horse could carry him, trying to forget the face that had been raised to his. Suddenly, like an arrow, the

thought struck him: "That man, also, is my brother, and I have despised him!" The rider dropped his rein, and

the horse went slowly along the rough road between the olive orchards. Francis was both ashamed and

disappointed. He said to himself: "My purse was an insult, for I gave it without love, and with more scorn

The spring sun was high and hot; the sky was cloudless; not a shadow lay on the vast, bare height of Monte

Subasio. At a fountain beside the road some women were washing. They sang as they worked and, at the end

of the long fountain basin, a group of children shouted with laughter, dipping their little hands into the cold

water, and splashing one another merrily. All the world seemed happy in the sunshine, and, by contrast, the

misery of the poor leper seemed the greater. At the sound of hoofs, the songs and laughter ceased and all

turned to look at the newcomer; but, to the surprise of everyone, the horseman wheeled swiftly about, and

clattered back in the direction from which he had come. "Who is he?" one woman asked of another. "Only

that young Bernardone, the merchant's son," was the answer; "people say that he has gone mad." Then an old,

bent woman spoke: "Mad or not, he has a kind heart. It was his gold that kept my poor Giovanni alive last

Francis heard nothing. He rode fast across the valley toward the little hospital. He had not been gone ten

minutes, and the leper, scarcely recovered from his surprise at the generous gift he had received, was

creeping to the gate with his treasure. He moved slowly, as if in pain. Francis sprang from his horse, and,

kneeling in the dusty road, he lifted the leper's hand to his lips and kissed it, as he had been taught to kiss the

hand of a bishop or a prince. It is likely that the leper was as greatly puzzled as the beggar in the porch of St.

Peter's had been, but Francis Bernardone was not mad. Instead, he had learned, through his own failure and

shame, a lesson that some men never learn; for, "though I give all my gifts to feed the poor, and have not

love, it is nothing." From that spring morning, at the gate of the leper hospital, until the day of his death,

Francis of Assisi never met the man who was too filthy, or too loathsome, or even too wicked, for him to

To Francis, the world seemed full of new and beautiful things to do. When he saw a poor little chapel by the

roadside, he wanted to bring stones and build it up with his own hands. When he saw an old woman bending

under a heavy load of faggots, or grass from the mountain, he wanted to take the burden upon his own

shoulders. When he saw a hungry child, he wanted to give it his own dinner. Above all, it seemed to him that

he must go everywhere and tell people to love and help each other, instead of fighting with swords and

Piero Bernardone had been willing to give his son money and clothes and horses, that the boy might be as

gay as any of his young friends; but Piero did not like to have his money thrown away on all the poor folk of

Assisi. Before many days, Francis found that he had not much of his own to give. He did have some beautiful

pieces of silk and velvet and embroidery that his father had brought him from one of his long journeys. One

day Francis took these out from the carved oak chest in which he kept his treasures. He spread them upon the

floor and looked at them with the trained eye of a merchant's clerk. He knew exactly how much money they

ought to bring. The next morning he rolled his merchandise into a parcel, bound it to his saddle, and rode

away to Foligno, to the marketplace, for it was the day of the fair. The square was thronged with people.

Under gay booths in the centre, all along the streets, against the palace walls, even on the steps of the

cathedral, buyers and sellers were bargaining. Many were there who had seen Francis ride gallantly by, a few

months before, on his way to the war. Now, they were astonished to see him, with simple clothes and gentle

manner, offering his goods for sale. When all the gay stuffs were gone, Francis sold his horse also, and

started back toward Assisi on foot, with a full purse at his side. Perhaps the horse he had just sold was the

very one on which he had ridden so merrily over the same road with his soldier friends. However that may

be, as Francis neared home and turned off from the highroad, to climb the stony footpath that shortens the

way, his heart was far happier than it had ever been before. He smiled to himself as he remembered how he

had loved war; how his heart had delighted in banners and bright armour and martial music. Now, he had no

sword nor shield, not even a horse, and he was a most unsoldierly figure with his dusty feet and his plain

clothes. On the hillside, he turned and looked down the road once more, wondering what had become of the

knightly company who had gone to do battle in the faroff south. As he went on his way again he thought

gladly, "My Captain is greater and braver than Walter of Brienne, though He was only the Carpenter of

The time came quickly when Francis needed more than a soldier's courage. His father and his brother were

terribly angry with him, because, they said, he was making himself and the family ridiculous. Piero

Bernardone had always been a hard man, and now, in his wrath and disappointment, he was cruel. The poor

mother tried to make peace, but Piero only became as angry with her as with his son.

At one time Francis hid himself for days in the little chapel of San Damiano, outside the city, where he had

found a friend in the poor priest. Piero sought for him in fury, but did not find him. Francis could not long

endure to be in hiding, like a coward, and he determined to go home to his father, and to explain that he must

live the life that he knew to be right. By this time all Assisi had heard of the trouble between father and son,

and there were many people who thought Francis a madman. Before he reached his father's door the idlers

and children were shouting about him, making so much noise that Piero burst into the street, to know what

was happening. When he saw Francis he was wild with anger. He would not listen to a word, but fell upon

the youth like a savage. The crowd stood back in horror, and the father with cruel blows and crueller curses

dragged his son away and, thrusting him, half strangled, into a dark room, locked the door.

How long Francis was kept a prisoner we do not know. At last his father was obliged to go away on a

journey, and Lady Pica, who saw that all her efforts to soften her husband's heart were fruitless, unlocked the

All Piero's fatherly love had turned to bitter hatred. When he came home, he went to the rulers of the city and

demanded that Francis should be banished from Assisi. Then Francis appealed for protection to the bishop, to

whom he told the whole sad story. He told him of his past life and of the life he now wished to lead; he told

One day, in the little square in front of the bishop's palace, there was a strange scene. Before a crowd of men

and women and children, who wondered at the change in the boy they had always known, and who wondered

still more at the fierce anger of the father, Francis stripped off the clothes he wore and laid them, with the

little money that he had left, at the bishop's feet. Then he spoke, and his voice rang clear and sweet, with no

touch of fear nor of anger: "Listen, all of you, and understand. Until this time I have called Piero Bernardone

my father, but now I must serve God. Therefore I give back to my earthly father all my money and my

clothing, everything that I have had from him, and from this time forth I shall say only: 'Our Father who art in

Heaven.' " The crowd of neighbours and friends stood silent and astonished to see the merchant greedily seize

the money and the garments and go away without one look of pity for his son. Then Bishop Guido, with his

own cloak, covered the lad, who stood trembling, partly with cold and partly with grief. We must remember

that Francis had a loving, gentle spirit and longed to be at peace with his father; but, as he had said himself,

he was Christ's soldier, and a soldier has no choice but to obey. In his heart he seemed to hear quite plainly

his Captain's order: "My soldier, Francis, you must be poor, not rich; you must not wear soft clothing nor

feast at princes' tables; but you must go through city streets and country lanes, and take care of my sick folk

"Take henceforth Francis and Poverty for lovers. Their concord and glad semblances made love,

After these things, Francis found himself without home, or clothing, or money. Scantily clad in an old cloak,

lent to him by the bishop's gardener, he wandered outside the city gate on the mountain side. It was early

spring, and the snow lay white in the ravines above him, and on all the faroff peaks across the valley. But

the sky was blue and, on the stony slopes, the yellow broom was in full flower. Francis threw himself down

on the sunny side of a great olive tree. He leaned against the warm grey trunk, and looked and listened. A tiny

lizard darted across the ground close to his hand, and shot up the tree like a green flame. The wind in the dry,

silvery olive leaves whispered like a kindly voice, and in every thicket the birds were singing. It seemed to

Francis that the wind spoke to him, and that the birds sang to him. He forgot his sorrows and sang also the

gay old Troubadour songs, which were the only ones he knew. He did not sing battle songs, but those that

told of April, of nightingales, of roses and of fair ladies. Like a courtly minstrel he sang: " 'O nightingale, go

where my lady dwells, And bear her news of me; Then listen while she truly tells Her tales to thee; And she,

if she doth not forget My love and pain, Will bid thee swiftly turn again Where I wait yet To know how pass

The nightingales were not yet come from the South, but the sparrows made merrier than ever in the bright

broom, and a wooddove, hidden in an oak tree, was calling to his mate; and Francis sang again, the song

that he had loved best in the days when he dreamed of fighting splendid battles for the sake of a

goldenhaired princess: " 'Great lady, who art fairest Men say, of all things fair, The noble name thou bearest

None may so fitly bear; Clear fountain of all beauty That gladdens the green earth, Thy deeds of love and

Even as he sang, he thought: "The Lady whom I shall serve has no other suitor, no poet has ever sung her

praises, and no knight has ever fought her battles; for I will be the faithful lover of the Lady Poverty, whom

Little by little, the good people of Assisi became accustomed to seeing Francis Bernardone dressed in a

dustcoloured robe, with a cord about his waist. He went barefooted and bareheaded. Many still thought him

mad, and the street children shouted at him and threw mud and stones. The young men with whom he had

eaten so many suppers and sung so many songs, now jeered at him, and even his brother joined in the cruel

sport. Francis was too tenderhearted not to be hurt by all this, but he never answered angrily. He thought: "It

is because they do not understand." But, if his rich friends were unkind, the poor folk who had loved him for

his gentle words and for his gifts, when he was the proud young merchant, loved him the better now that he

had given them all his money, and was ready to share his crust of bread with any hungry man. At the little

hospital where Francis had gone first in splendid clothes, with a full purse at his side, the lepers wondered to

see him come so poorly dressed, with no horse and no money. But, when they saw how gently he took care of

those who were most sick and helpless, they called him "Brother Francis"; and they forgot their suffering

One by one new friends came to Francis asking that they might live as he lived, wear a coarse robe and go

barefooted, and work with him for the poor and the sick. The first of all was a former friend, a rich

gentleman of Assisi, named Bernardo di Quintevalle. This man gave away his riches and came to live with

Francis in the service of the Lady Poverty. He was called Brother Bernardo, and Francis loved him dearly

and, because he was the first of the little company of Brothers, used to call him "my oldest son." The second

of the new friends was named Piero, and the third Sylvester. Sylvester had been a selfish man, greedy of gold,

but when he saw Francis and, after him, Bernardo give away their wealth so gladly, and live so happily

without it, he wanted for himself that joy that his money could not buy, and he ended by coming to be one of

When there were several in the company of Brothers, Francis named them "The Little Poor Men of God."

Three of them who were most with Francis, and who afterward wrote down the story of his life, were Brother

Egidio, Brother Ruffino and Brother Leone. Brother Leone's name means Lion, but he was so gentle and so

unlike his name that Francis used to call him "God's Little Lamb." Of Brother Egidio, who loved long,

dangerous journeys, and who was always ready for any adventure, Francis would say: "He is one of the

The new Brothers were without money, and without even a house in which to live. In the summer it seemed

to them to matter little. They slept out under the wide sky, as the shepherds still sleep in Italy, and the moon,

rising over Monte Subasio, flooded all the valley with white light; and the nightingales filled the forest with

wonderful music. But when the autumn nights grew cold, when the moonlight fell upon a valley thick with

mist, the Brothers looked about for shelter. Their refuge was a little building, scarcely more than a hovel,

falling to ruin, and abandoned. It had once been a retreat for lepers, but the lepers had been moved to that

hospital nearer the city which Francis had so many times visited. The older building had been called Rivo

Torto, Crooked Brook, from the little stream beside which it stood. Here the Brothers lived all through the

winter, and, when spring came, so many had joined the Brotherhood that they had not room to sleep.

Miserable as it was, Francis and his first Brothers loved their little hovel, and were happy there, and from its

scant shelter they went out to carry joy and healing to the sad and to the sick. The ruined hospital long ago

disappeared and, today, it is not easy to find even the place where it stood. In among fields, where the corn

grows so tall that one walks as if in a forest, there is a tiny chapel with an old well and a hut or two. Even the

name has been changed, and if one asks a peasant the way to Rivo Torto, he will point out a great church far

away; yet, in spite of years and changes, the memory of Francis and his little Brotherhood still shines over the

Straight across the plain, not far from Rivo Torto, in the midst of tall forest trees, stood a little chapel where

Francis and his few Brothers had often gone to rest and to pray. A rich abbot, seeing that the Little Poor Men

had no place to sleep, made them a present of this chapel and the ground about it. Here they built rude huts

and planted a hedge and made for themselves a home, which they called the Portiuncula, the little portion. A

great church, called Santa Maria degli Angeli, has been built upon this spot and the little old chapel still

The life of the Poor Brothers does not seem a gay one, as we read about it, yet they were most

happyhearted. There was no work too humble nor too hard for them to do. They helped at ploughing in the

spring, at reaping and threshing in the summer. In autumn they gathered grapes or nuts, and in winter olives,

for in Umbria the olive harvest is in the winter. When the Brothers were paid for their work, they gave away

They often made long journeys, working their way from place to place. Thus it happened, one day, that

Brother Egidio, the "Knight of the Round Table," was standing in a public square in Rome, when a

countryman came by, asking for a laborer to go and gather nuts from a very tall tree. The men who stood

about said: "No: we remember your tree. It is too high and we do not want to break our necks." "I will go,

gladly," said Egidio, "if you will give me half the nuts I gather." The bargain was made, and Brother Egidio

climbed to the highest branches and beat down all the nuts. His share he gathered up in his robe, and went

merrily through the streets of Rome, throwing nuts to the poor folk whom he met, till all were gone.

Wherever the Little Poor Men came they brought help and comfort, and people came to love them and to

welcome them, even those who, at first, had mocked at them and thrown stones. For love and joy and

helpfulness and gentle words make most of the happiness of life, and all these gifts the Brothers had to give,

The Brothers who knew Francis best in these years, who shared his joys and sorrows, and even his thoughts,

have many stories to tell of his love for flowers and birds and animals. When they were planting their little

pieces of ground around the poor huts in the plain, he used to bid them leave a corner of good earth for "our

little sisters, the flowers." Once, in the marketplace of Siena, he rescued a pair of doves from being sold. He

gathered them up in his robe, saying: "Little sisterdoves, you are simple, and good, and pure. Why have they

captured you? I will save you from death and make you nests for your little ones."

There is a pretty story of the friendship of Francis with a family of redthroats who used to come and pick up

crumbs on the table where the Brothers were eating. Another story is of a frightened hare which some one

had caught in a trap. "Come to me, Brother Hare," said Francis, and the trembling little beast fled to him and

let itself be caressed by his kind hands. It even refused to run away, on being set down, so that Francis was

One day Francis was in a little boat, being ferried across the lake of Rieti, when a boatman made him a

present of an uncommonly large fish, just caught and gasping for breath. The gift was accepted gladly, but, in

a minute, the astonished giver saw Francis drop the creature back into the water, bidding it thank God.

Probably neither the fish nor the fisherman understood the tender heart that could not bear to see anything

suffer pain; yet, doubtless, in its own way, the poor fish was grateful to feel the cool water again, and it is to

With birds Francis felt himself always among dear and happy friends. Once these little companions were

even too noisy in their merrymaking. It was on a day when Francis stood up to speak to a great crowd of

men and women gathered out of doors. Hundreds of swallows were wheeling all about, as one often sees

them of a spring afternoon, twittering and calling with shrill voices while they hunt their supper on the wing.

This time the birds flew so low, and were so many and so loud, that Francis could not make himself heard.

Suddenly he turned from his audience and spoke into the air: "It is time that I should have my turn to talk,

little sister Swallows," he said; "be quiet and listen until I have finished"; and, so says the old story, the

A short time after, Francis went on his way toward Bevagna, a small town on the southwestern side of the

Umbrian valley. Looking off from Assisi, one may still see the road by which he must have walked. Two or

three of his Brothers were with him, but Francis was not talking. His head was bent and he seemed to be

thinking so hard that he had forgotten all about his comrades. Suddenly, as it is written in an old book called

"The Little Flowers of St. Francis," "he lifted up his eyes and saw many trees along the side of the road and in

their branches an almost countless number of birds; so that Francis wondered, and said to his companions:

'Wait for me here, and I will go and preach to my sisters the birds.' And he went into the field and began to

preach to the birds that were on the ground, and, quickly, those that were up in the trees came to him, and

they all kept quiet while Francis finished his sermon, and, even then, they did not go away until he had given

them his blessing. And, when Francis went among them touching their heads, not one of them moved. The

substance of the sermon that Francis made was this: 'My bird sisters, you are much beloved by God your

Master, and always, in every place, you ought to praise Him, because He has given you liberty to fly

everywhere; and He has given you also clothing double and triple. You are loved also by the air which He has

given to you; and moreover, you neither sow nor reap, and God feeds you, and gives you the rivers and the

fountains to drink from; He gives you the mountains and the valleys for your refuge, and the tall trees for

your nests, and, although you do not know how to spin nor sew, God clothes you and your children. God

must love you much, since He gives you so many blessings, and therefore, be careful, my sisters, of the sin of

ingratitude, and always seek to praise God.' While Francis said these words, all those birds began to open

their beaks, and stretch out their necks, and spread their wings, and bend their heads reverently toward the

earth, and, with acts and songs, they showed that the Holy Father gave them great pleasure. And Francis

rejoiced and made merry together with them, and he wondered much at such a multitude of birds, and at their

beauty and at their attention and tameness, and he devoutly thanked God for them." The old story goes on to

tell how, after the sermon, the great flock of birds rose into the air with wonderful songs and flew away North

and South and East and West, even as the Poor Brothers must go, who, like the birds, had nothing of their

This story of the birds was so much loved and so often told that, years afterward, the painters liked to paint it

on the walls of the churches. You may still see, in the great Church of St. Francis in Assisi, a picture by the

painter Giotto, of the greyrobed Brother, standing among the birds, and telling them, so simply that it really

seemed as if a bird might understand, of the Father without whose love not even a sparrow falls.

One night Brother Francis and Brother Leone, "God's Little Lamb," were alone together. It was May, and in a

great ilex tree near them a nightingale was singing sweet and clear, in the stillness. To Francis the song

seemed all joy and praise. "Come, Brother Leone," he cried, "let us sing, too, and see which will tire first, our

voices or that of the nightingale." But Brother Leone, who was, perhaps, tired and sleepy, excused himself,

saying that he had no voice. Then Francis, his heart filled with the gladness of the beautiful springtime,

went out into the darkness, and, all night long, the man and the bird sang wonderful songs of love and praise.

But even God's Troubadour could not outdo the little unseen singer in the ilex tree, and, at last, Francis

"Said Grey Brother, 'Where shall we lair today? for from now we follow new trails.' "Kipling.

The huts in the plain below Assisi were the home of the Little Poor Men, in so far as they had a home; but,

like the Troubadours and Knights Errant, they were wanderers always. Just as Sir Lancelot or Sir Gawain

would ride away from the court of King Arthur to fight for any forlorn lady, or for any hardpressed knight,

so Brother Leone or Brother Francis would set forth at any moment to carry help to the miserable. But the

Brothers went on foot, and they wore no armour, and fought no battles; yet they had need to be as brave as

the best of knights, for they went among the sick, and cared for those who were dying of most terrible

diseases. They met fierce enemies, too, since many people hated them because they spoke without fear in the

streets, saying that pride and greed and war are wicked, and that folk should live by love and labour, not by

fighting and robbery. When people saw that the Brothers really lived as they preached, that, when they were

stoned by cruel hands and abused by cruel tongues, they returned only gentleness for anger, many began to

listen gladly, and even barons and princes came to love Francis and his Brothers, as the poor and wretched

Francis himself had a manner so sweet and winning that no one could refuse to listen to him; and sometimes

he used to be sent for to make peace between two enemies, because even angry men, listening to his voice,

forgot their hatred, and were ready to forgive and to be friends again. The stories say, moreover, that he could

One of the places which Francis often visited is a little city called Gubbio, about fifteen miles north of Assisi.

Almost all the way the road lies across the high mountains and the traveller can overlook the long Umbrian

valley. From these bare heights, Perugia and Assisi seem to lie low, but far to the south, on clear days, the

tops of the tallest Apennines stand out against the sky. Before the road drops to the narrow valley which lies

below the gates of Gubbio, Francis, who loved the mountains, always turned to look back at the great peaks,

Gubbio looks not unlike Assisi, but is still more steeply built up a mountain side. In those days the stone

houses seemed to huddle within the great city walls for shelter, for there was frequent fighting at Gubbio.

Even in times of peace, people were often afraid to go beyond the gates, because in the forests and caves on

the mountain lived daring robbers and brigands. Besides the savage men, there were also savage beasts, and

the shepherds feared for their lambs and kids, when they heard the howling of the wolves at night.

Once, when Brother Francis came to Gubbio, all the city was in terror because of a wolf, the largest and

fiercest ever known. The huge creature prowled about the country, devouring sheep and goats; but, worse

than that, it fell upon men, and had killed more than one shepherd. No man dared to go out of the gates alone,

and even three or four together went armed, as if to battle; for the beast came close to the city walls, and his

Bands of citizens had been out to seek the wolf, but had found only the track of his big feet, and the bones of

the victims that he had eaten. Every night the folk of Gubbio, safely barred within their stone houses, told a

new story of the fourfooted enemy: how a shepherd had lost his fattest sheep and two of his best dogs; how

a soldier, riding alone, toward evening, from the next town, had seen a great grey creature moving in the

woods by the roadside, and had spurred his horse to its best speed and reached the gate with the beast close at

the heels of the frightened horse. Night after night the children of Gubbio shivered in their beds, thinking of a

long shadow that crept about the city walls in the moonlight, and seeming to hear the pad of four swift feet,

Brother Francis had been often in Gubbio and was well known there, and much loved, and therefore all the

people turned to him with the stories of their suffering. He was sorry, says the old tale, to see the folk

wishing, but not daring, to go outside the gates, because the wolf was most terrible and fierce. To the

astonishment and horror of everybody, Francis declared that he would himself go out and meet the wolf.

Though all the crowd begged him not to venture, and filled his ears with accounts of the cruelty of the beast,

the Little Poor Man, followed by one or two Brothers, went out from the city gate and down the road toward

the spot where the wolf was thought to lurk. Behind the Brothers came the citizens of Gubbio, still

frightened, but curious to see what would happen, and, it may be, quieted by the coolness and fearlessness of

Francis. Close at the heels of the Brothers marched certain venturesome boys, and at the very end of the

procession dangled a group of smaller, timider children, roundeyed and openmouthed, who clutched each

About a quarter of a mile beyond the gate, where a wood of tall oaks and walnuts shadowed the road, those

who were nearest turned pale at the sight of the wolf, coming swiftly along, with his great jaws open, eager to

spring upon Brother Francis, who walked ahead and alone. He went, not as a soldier goes to meet an enemy,

As the unarmed man and the wild beast neared each other, Francis called, cheerily: "Come hither, Brother

Wolf! I ask you, for Christ's sake, to do no harm to me nor to any one." Then the crowd saw, with wonder,

that the terrible wolf stopped running, and that the great, wicked jaws closed; and, presently, the creature

came softly up to Brother Francis and, meek as a lamb, lay down at his feet. And Francis spoke to him as one

man might reason with another: "Brother Wolf, you do much harm in all this countryside, and you have

committed many crimes, hurting and killing God's creatures. Not only have you killed and eaten beasts, but

you have dared to kill men, made in God's image, and, therefore, you deserve to be punished like the worst of

thieves and murderers; and all the people cry out and murmur against you; and everybody is your enemy."

The wolf lay perfectly still, with his head flat in the dust of the road, and his red tongue lolled out like that of

a winded hound. The people forgot their fright, and spread themselves in a circle that all might see and hear;

the children tiptoed closer, to look at the monster who had filled all their dreams with terror. "But I wish,

Brother Wolf," went on the voice of Francis, "to make peace between you and this folk, so that you shall not

harm them any more; and they shall forgive you all your misdeeds, and neither the men nor the dogs shall

trouble you any longer." Then, with body and head and tail, the great wolf seemed to agree to all that Brother

Francis said. Perhaps the wolf somewhat wondered what he should do for dinner, if he could not kill a sheep

nor a child; perhaps he was so charmed by this strange, gentle voice that he forgot all about his dinner.

Brother Francis did not forget, as his next words showed. "Brother Wolf," said he, "since you are honestly

willing to make and keep this peace, I promise you that, as long as you live, the men of this place shall give

you food, so that you shall never go hungry; for I know well that it is hunger that has made you do all this

evil. But I want you to promise me, in return, that you will never harm any human being, nor any animal.

Will you promise me this?" And the wolf nodded his head, as if he said: "Yes, I promise." And Francis said:

"Brother Wolf, I want you to make me so sure of your promise that I cannot doubt it." The man held out his

hand, and the beast lifted his paw and laid it clumsily on Brother Francis's palm, as much as to say: "Here is

my hand. I will keep my part of the treaty." "And now," said Francis, "I wish you, Brother Wolf, to come

Francis turned back toward the city, and the wolf walked beside him like a pet lamb; and the people of

Gubbio followed, in great wonder, silently. But, once within the city, they spread the news from street to

street and everybody, big and little, young and old, crowded into the square to see Brother Francis and the

Beside the fountain, in the centre of the square, stood the Little Poor Man in his grey gown, with the great

grey beast at his side. When he spoke, his clear voice carried far, and all the crowd fell silent, striving to hear.

"Listen, my friends," said Francis, "Brother Wolf, who is here before you, has promised me on his honour

never to hurt you again in any way; and you, in your turn, must promise to give him all that he needs. I will

go surety for him that he will keep his promise." And all the people, with one voice, pledged themselves to

Then, before them all, Brother Francis said to the wolf: "And you, Brother Wolf, promise again before all this

people that you will keep faith with them, and will hurt no man, nor animal, nor any living thing." Then the

wolf knelt down and bent his head and said, as well as he could, with his body, his head and his ears, that he

meant to keep his word. And Brother Francis said: "Give me your hand here, before all the people, as you did

outside the gate"; and the big grey paw was laid again in the hand of Brother Francis, while all the people

shouted to heaven for joy that God had sent so good a man to deliver them from so terrible a beast.

After this Brother Wolf lived in Gubbio, and went about tamely from door to door, even entering the houses,

without doing harm or being harmed. He was well fed and politely treated by everybody, and not a dog dared

to bark at him. He must have led a long life of evildoing before his change of heart, for, at the end of two

years, he died of old age. When he died, all the citizens of Gubbio mourned for him greatly, for his own sake,

and because the sight of him walking so meekly through the streets had made them always remember the

Brother Francis made many journeys through the mountains and valleys about Gubbio, and all the people,

rich and poor, came to know the drooping grey figure and the face that was always so cheerful and kind,

One of the little cities where he used to visit is called Borgo San Sepulcro. It lies at the foot of a mountain,

and outside its walls was a deep moat with a drawbridge before each gate, for a city on a plain is harder to

defend in battle than a city on a hill. Today, the moat is dry and planted with vineyards, but the old walls are

solid still, though they are so covered by trailing vines that an army of small boys might scale them.

From Borgo San Sepulcro, Brother Francis visited the little villages that lay, each at the gates of a great

castle, as a dog crouches at his master's feet. For village and villagers belonged to the lord of the castle, and,

though he might be cruel, and ill treat them, they had no other protection in war save that of the castle

One day, in a place called Monte Casale, about two hours' walk from Borgo San Sepulcro, a youth from one

of the castles came to Brother Francis. He had a great name and great wealth, and the common people stood

aside to let him pass. The youth knelt down humbly before Francis and said: "Father, I wish to be one of your

Poor Brothers." Francis looked down kindly into the eager young face and replied: "My son, you are used to a

beautiful home, to rich clothing and delicate food; how will you endure poverty and hardship such as ours?"

But the lad answered simply: "Can I not bear all these things, by the help of God, even as you do?" Francis

was greatly pleased by this answer. He joyfully received the youth into the company of Little Poor Men,

giving him the name of Brother Angelo; and his trust in the new Brother was so great that, a little time after,

he made him guardian of a small house, near by, where some of the Brotherhood were living.

The house stood in a wild region of mountains and forests, and, at this time, three famous and terrible robbers

On a certain day, when Francis was absent, these men came to the house of the Brothers and asked for food.

Brother Angelo answered them sharply, saying: "You cruel thieves and murderers! you are not ashamed to

steal what others have worked to earn; and you even have the face to ask for that which has been given in

charity to God's poor! You are not fit to live, since you reverence neither men nor yet God, who made you.

Away with you! and do not let me see you here again!" The robbers went off with dark looks and muttered

curses, but Brother Angelo felt well satisfied with himself, and perhaps a little proud that he had been so good

An hour later, Brother Francis returned to the house, weary with long walking on the rough mountain paths.

Over his shoulder he carried a bag of food that had been given to him for the Brothers and for their poor folk.

Brother Angelo greeted him with the story of the three robbers. He doubtless expected praise for having rid

the house of such dangerous evildoers; but, to his surprise, Francis looked at him, sadly and sternly, and

said: "My son, you have behaved most cruelly. One should receive sinners with gentleness, not with

harshness, even as Jesus Christ, who said: 'They that are whole have no need of a physician, but they that are

sick,' and 'I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.' Moreover, Jesus Himself used often to

eat with the most wretched sinners, and you, my son, have forgotten all charity, and the teaching of Christ.

Go then quickly; take this food and follow the robbers, as fast as you can, until you overtake them. When you

find them give them this bread from me; and kneel down before them and confess your fault, and beg them,

in my name, not to do any more evil. Tell them that, if they will give up their wicked life, I will find food for

It was a hard minute for young Brother Angelo. He had looked for praise, and, instead, he was being reproved

by the lips that had never before spoken any but gentle words to him. Surely this command was strange and

unreasonable! How could he run after the men he had just driven away? How could he ask pardon of such

wretches? But as he looked into the face of Brother Francis, so stern, and yet so pitiful, a thought that he had

never known before stirred in his heart, the thought that it is possible to love not only those who are good and

gentle, but even the wicked and vile. For it was easy to see that Francis loved and pitied these robbers, who

were prowling about, not far away, hungry and fierce, like wild beasts. When this new thought came to

Angelo, all his anger disappeared, and he was ready and glad to obey Brother Francis.

He threw the bag over his shoulder, and ran along, as fast as he could, by the narrow path that the thieves had

taken. The way was steep and stony, but he did not notice. There had been a thunder storm, but now the sun

came out, and the wind piled the clouds white and high above the mountain tops, and the sky was deep blue.

The sunshine seemed to Angelo like the face of Brother Francis, shining upon him and driving away all his

hard and cruel thoughts. He began to be more and more sorry as he remembered the rough words he had used

to the beggars. As he went on, seeing no one, sometimes through the woods, sometimes over stony pastures,

where sheep were feeding, he began to think: "Suppose I cannot find the men? Suppose they have taken some

other road, and are wandering in the woods, hungry and miserable?" At the thought, he pulled the bag higher

Just as the path made a sharp turn and entered the woods again, Angelo saw the three wretched men sitting

under a chestnut tree, trying in vain to find a few nuts among the husks, for it was late autumn and the nuts

As Angelo came running along the path, the three robbers eyed him sullenly, and when they recognised the

haughty youth who had driven them so harshly from his door, they were ready to fall upon him and beat him.

A minute later, they sat in speechless surprise, for the boy threw himself and his bag down before them,

crying: "Here is food, my brothers, take it, and forgive my cruelty. Brother Francis sends me to you, and begs

you, for his sake, to accept the food; and he bids me tell you that, if you will give up your wicked life, he will

Perhaps there were never three men more astonished than the robbers of Monte Casale. They devoured the

food greedily, for they were starving; but, as they ate, they began to say among themselves: "What miserable

creatures we are, who live by thieving and murder, and fear neither men nor God! And here is this youth, who

said to us only what we richly deserved, asking our pardon, and bringing us food, and promising that the holy

The three robbers became sorrier and sorrier as they remembered all their wicked deeds. By and by one of

them said: "Let us go ourselves to Brother Francis and ask him if God will yet forgive us. It may be that the

Thus it came about that the three infamous robbers of Monte Casale joined the company of Little Poor Men,

One day in summer, Francis of Assisi came out from the city gate and walked down the mountain on his way

to the Portiuncula. He took a path that he loved well because it led him by the chapel of San Damiano, where,

long ago, the good priest had hidden him from his father's anger, and where many times, in that first year of

trouble, he had found shelter and comfort. He loved the little chapel the more because he had helped to

rebuild it. He knew the very stones that he had laid with his own hands. Now, the place was dear to him for

another reason, for house and garden and little chapel belonged to a sisterhood, whose leader, Sister Chiara,

had come to him in the early days at the Portiuncula asking that she might live the same life of poverty and

service as that of the Little Poor Men. To her, and to all her company, Francis had been friend and father, and

From the gate of San Damiano Francis could see the whole valley, where the August air quivered with heat,

and the riverbed lay white and dry. The little huts in the plain were hidden in deep forest, and he thought

how cool the shadow of the oaks and tall walnut trees would be at the end of his journey. Hot as it was, he did

not take the shortest road, but turned into a footpath that led to the leper hospital. He was barefooted and

bareheaded; his robe was the colour of the dusty path; he walked with bent head, wearily, for he was not

Under the trees, men and women were resting through the hottest hours, and the children were playing

quietly. A baby lay sound asleep on the brown grass, where the shadow of broad vine leaves fell across its

face. A tiredlooking donkey nibbled sadly along the hedgerows, which were dry and dusty, for the August

As Francis drew near, the men and women rose to greet him, and the children left their play to run and kiss

his hand, for no one in all the countryside was so beloved as the Little Poor Man. He petted the children; he

found a greener twig for the donkey, and called him "Brother Ass"; he lingered to ask and answer questions,

As he turned to go, a little girl, pushed forward by her mother, came toward him timidly, holding up a basket

covered over with vine leaves. The sun shone on the child's curly head and tiny brown arms. As she lifted the

basket higher the green leaves slipped aside, showing the deep purple of the August figs. "Will you accept

them, Father, for your supper at the Portiuncula?" the mother said. "They are ripe and sweet." The child said

nothing, but stood smiling up into the kind eyes of the Little Poor Man. Brother Francis took the basket and

bent to kiss the giver. "God reward you, little one," he said. "I will carry the fruit to our sick brothers at the

One of the first duties which Francis had taught his Little Poor Men was the care of the lepers, and some of

the Brothers always stayed in the hospital, and Francis himself went often to nurse and comfort the sufferers.

On this August day, to his surprise, he found his Brother nurses worn and discouraged. They turned eagerly

to him, as always when they were in trouble, and they told him a sad story. "Father," said one of them, "do

not be angry with us, nor think that we have been impatient and have forgotten our rule of humbleness and

service. There is here a leper so wretched in mind and body that not one of us can help him nor even control

him. He is in constant pain, and nothing gives him relief, and he is as bad in spirit as in body, for he shrieks

and curses when we come near him, and his words are so wicked that we are afraid to listen."

"I will go to him," said Francis, and they showed him the bed where the leper lay, muttering curses still with

his parched and swollen lips. "God give you peace, dear Brother," said Francis, as he stepped to the bedside.

"What peace can I have from God, who has taken away from me peace, and every other good thing, and has

made me altogether miserable?" cried the leper. "I am in pain day and night, and these Brothers of yours do

not care for me as they should; they have done nothing," he complained, bitterly. "I will take care of you,

Brother," said Francis, "I will do for you whatever you wish." "Then wash me from head to foot with your

own hands," cried the leper, still angrily, "for all my body is covered with sores, and I am loathsome, even to

myself." Then Francis very patiently began to bathe the leper, and his hand and his words were so tender that

the wretched man was soothed, and ceased to curse and complain. His pain vanished, too, under the care of

his new nurse, and, as he became comfortable in body, he grew gentle in spirit, and was sorry for his unkind

The other Brothers were astonished to see the man who had given them so much trouble become suddenly

One day, as Francis sat by the bedside, the sick man turned to him with tears in his eyes. "Forgive me,

Brother," he said, "all the evil that I have spoken of you and of your Brotherhood." And Francis took his hand

and spoke softly to him: "My Brother, you have suffered great pain. If you have not borne it meekly, ask God

The old story tells how, a few weeks later, the leper died, at peace with God and with all the world.

From the first, the way in which the Brotherhood of Little Poor Men grew in numbers was a wonderful thing

to see. Within a few years it had outgrown the settlement in the plain and was a vast company, like a great

army sent out to make, not war, but peace. The groups of Grey Brothers were known all over Italy, and

companies of them had gone to France and Spain and Germany, and even to the north of Africa. In foreign

lands, just as in Italy, they preached their simple Gospel, and preached it best by caring for the sick and the

Sometimes the Brothers were received kindly in the faroff countries; sometimes they were mocked and

stoned, as they had been at home, and in Africa a brave little band was cruelly put to death.

It seemed to Francis that he could not bear to stay where he was known and safe, while his Brothers were

enduring danger, and even death, in strange lands. Moreover, his heart yearned over the ignorant and

miserable everywhere, and he longed to tell in other places what he had told in Italy, that men should love

each other and live at peace, and that food and clothing and money should be for all, not for the few. It was

only the Gospel of the Carpenter of Nazareth, but men had forgotten His teaching, though they built churches

In the year 1219, one of the great wars called Crusades, or Wars of the Cross, was going on. The Crusaders

were soldiers from Europe, who fought in the Holy Land to drive the Saracens away from Jerusalem, that the

Holy Sepulchre where Christ was buried, and the hill where He was crucified, might not be in the hands of

unbelievers, for the Saracens were not Christians, but Mohammedans. They were brave and able soldiers,

however, and many times the knightly armies from England, France, Germany and Italy, suffered terrible

Fifteen years earlier Francis Bernardone would have been the most eager of Crusaders. The thought of the

long voyage, of the battles to be fought in Eastern lands for the rescue of the Holy Sepulchre, would have

made him even happier than he had been when he rode out to his first fight. Now, Brother Francis, the Little

Poor Man, was no less determined to go with the crusading army, but he went with only peace and pity in his

heart. He knew that where there were battles there would be wounded and dying to tend and comfort, and he

hoped that, in the midst of hatred and cruelty, he might find a chance to speak of love and gentleness. He

The Italian Crusaders were to sail for Egypt from the port of Ancona, on the Adriatic Sea, toward the end of

June. Francis and a company of his Brothers crossed the mountains from Assisi and reached Ancona in time

to go about from ship to ship, seeking to find passage. Since they were not soldiers, and since they had no

money, they were forced to trust to the friendliness of the ships' captains and, when the day of sailing came,

places had been found for only Francis and eleven companions. It was a sad minute, for all wanted to go, and

Francis could not bring himself to decide whom to leave behind. As he walked with them along the white

beach, and looked away over the blue harbour where the ships rode at anchor, he spoke sorrowfully: "My

Brothers, the shipmen will not take us all, and I have scarcely the courage to choose between you. Let us seek

to know what is God's will." On the beach a little child was playing in the sand, and Francis called him to

them. "Do you know numbers, little one?" he asked. "Can you count?" "Yes, Father," the child answered,

proudly, "I can count more than twenty." "Then count me out eleven of these, my Brothers, to go to sea with

me tonight when yonder ships set sail." The child did not understand what he was doing, but he went about

solemnly among the company, and, with his small forefinger, told off eleven Brothers, and, at evening, these

On the water, the summer days were long and hot. Sometimes the wind died away, the sails hung empty, and

the sun blistered the decks. The ships were crowded, and the soldiers were uncomfortable and discontented.

Many fell sick of sunstroke and fever, and Francis and his Brothers found plenty of misery ready to their kind

hands. At night, when the breeze freshened, and the great sails filled slowly; when the sky darkened and the

stars came out; when the ship's prow and the long oars cut through waves of wonderful, shining light, all the

wretchedness of the day was forgotten, and the voyagers made merry. The sailors sang at the ropes, the

Crusaders, common soldiers and knights together, seated on the deck, listened while some one told a

marvellous story of Tristram, or of Roland. Then a Troubadour would sing some brave or plaintive song,

Francis was soon known to all, and he found many new friends. Sometimes even the knightly tales were

neglected, while the soldiers questioned the Little Poor Man and listened to the story of the Brotherhood of

Francis was with the crusading army in Egypt for a long time, but we know little of what happened to him. A

certain French bishop wrote home a letter which has, somehow, been kept all these seven hundred years. He

tells in it of the wonderful "Brother Francis, whom every one reveres because he is so lovable; and who is not

Francis was so fearless and so gentle that, commonly, strangers and even enemies received him kindly, and

he came to be almost as well known among the Saracens as among the Crusaders. But there were some who

hated him because he preached a strange religion, which they feared, thinking that it might bring success to

One day Francis and Brother Illuminatus, who was his comrade at this time, were returning alone from the

Saracen camp to that of the Christians. Their course lay westward, and, where the treeless plain rose toward

the red sunset, they could see the line of the Crusaders' tents. The distance was short, and they had good hope

of reaching their friends before darkness fell, when, suddenly, from the south, a band of mounted men

appeared. As they came near, Francis could see that they were not Crusaders in heavy mail, but lightly armed

Saracens, on swift Arabian horses. They swept across the plain like a flight of birds, and Francis watched

them admiringly, for he loved all beautiful things. But the fleet riders had quick, fierce eyes. As they espied

the grey robes, they wheeled sharply and fell upon the Little Poor Men, like wolves upon sheep, so the old

Wounded and helpless in their cruel hands, Francis somehow made his enemies understand that he wished to

be taken into the presence of the Soldan himself, their emperor. Perhaps they were afraid to kill a man who

appealed to them in the name of their master; perhaps they expected a reward for their prisoners; perhaps

even their hard hearts were softened by the sight of men who neither fought nor feared. At any rate, they

finally bound the two Brothers and carried them off to the Saracen camp. The next day Francis had his wish

The Soldan sat on a splendid throne, and his dress was rich and beautiful. All about the throne stood armed

guards, and, at the foot of it black Ethiopian slaves, with shining eyes and teeth. On one side were the

Soldan's counsellors, his Wise Men, who could read in the stars the things that were to happen in the future;

who could tell the meaning of dreams, as the magicians had tried to do in Egypt, since the day, and long

before the day when young Joseph put them all to shame. The Wise Men wore turbans and long flowing

In front of the throne stood Francis and his one Little Brother. They were bareheaded and barefooted. Their

rough grey robes were dusty and torn and stained with blood. They seemed no match for the tall magicians,

who looked down on them with scorn, thinking them madmen or fools. But the Soldan was grave and

thoughtful. He wanted to know which spoke the truth, his learned counsellors, whom he had always trusted,

The Wise Men could give no help to their Sovereign, and, at last, Francis said: "My lord, bid your slaves

build here a fire before you, great and hot; it may be that God will show us a sign." When the red fire blazed

high, Francis spoke across it to the magicians: "If you love your religion better than your life, walk into the

midst of this fire with me, that it may be seen which faith should be held most certain and most holy." Then

the Wise Men cowered away from the flames with horror, and covered their faces in shame, knowing that

they dared not go into the fire. And Brother Francis cried aloud to the Soldan: "Promise me, my lord, for

thyself and thy people, that, if I come out unharmed, thou wilt worship Christ, and I will enter the fire alone."

But the Soldan was afraid, for he thought that his people might revolt, knowing that they held the Wise Men

in great dread and honour. Therefore he hastily sent the Brothers, with a safeguard, back to the camp of the

One night in December, a few years after his return from the East, Brother Francis, with one companion, was

walking through the beautiful valley of the Velino River, toward Rieti, a little city where he came often on his

way from Assisi to Rome. Tonight he had turned somewhat aside from the main road, for he wished to

spend Christmas with his friend, Sir John of Greccio. Greccio is a tiny village, lying where the foothills

begin, on the western side of the valley. The very feet of Brother Francis knew the road so well that he could

have walked safely in the darkness, but it was not dark. The full moon floated over the valley, making the

narrow river and the sharp outlines of the snowcovered mountains shine like silver. The plain and the lower

hills were pasture land, and, not far from the road, on a grassy slope, the Brothers saw the red glow of an

almost spent shepherds' fire. "Let us stop and visit our brothers, the shepherds," said Francis, and they turned

There was no sense of winter in the air, scarcely a touch of frost, and the only snow was that on the silver

peaks against the sky. The shepherds, three men and one boy, lay sleeping soundly on the bare ground, with

their sheepskin coats drawn closely around them. All about them the sheep were sleeping, too, but the solemn

white sheep dogs were wide awake. If a stranger's foot had trod the grass never so softly, every dog would

have barked, and every shepherd would have been on his feet in an instant. But the dogs trotted silently up to

the Grey Brothers and rubbed against them, as if they said, "We are glad to see you again," for they knew the

friendly feet of the Little Poor Man, and they had more than once helped him to eat the bread that was his

only dinner. Followed by the dogs, Francis walked about among the shepherds, but they slept on, as only men

who live out of doors can sleep, and Francis could not find it in his heart to waken them. The sheep lay

huddled together in groups for more warmth. Around one small square of grass a net was stretched, and,

inside it, were the mother sheep who had little lambs. There was no sound except the faint cry, now and then,

of a baby lamb. The coals over which the shepherds had cooked their supper paled from dull red to grey, and

there was only a thin column of smoke, white in the moonlight. Francis sat down on a stone, and the largest

of the white dogs pressed up against his knee. Another went dutifully back to his post beside the fold where

the mothers and babies slept. The Italian hillside seemed to Francis to change to that of Bethlehem, which

he had seen, perhaps, on his Eastern journey; the clear December night seemed like that of the first Christmas

Eve. "How these shepherds sleep!" he thought; "how they would awaken if they heard the 'Peace on earth' of

the angels' song!" Then he remembered sadly how the armies that called themselves Christian had, year after

year, battled with the Saracens over the cradle and the tomb of the Prince of Peace. The moonlight grew

misty about him, the silver heights of the mountains and the silver line of the river faded, for the eyes of

As the two Brothers went on their way, Francis grew light of heart again. The sight of the shepherds sleeping

on the grass had given him a new idea, and he was planning a surprise for his friends at Greccio. For at

Greccio all were his friends, from Sir John, his host, down to the babies in the street. In the valley of Rieti he

was almost as well known and as dearly loved as in his own valley of Assisi. The children of Greccio had

never heard of Christmas trees, nor, perhaps, of Christmas presents. I am not sure that, in the thirteenth

century, Italians had the beautiful custom which they now have, of giving presents at Twelfth Night, in

memory of the coming of the three kings with their gifts to the Christ Child; but in the thirteenth century,

even as now, Christmas was the happiest festival of the year. This year all the folk of Greccio, big and little,

were happier than usual because their beloved Brother Francis was to help them keep their Christmastide.

Next day Francis confided his plan to his friend, Sir John, who promised that all should be ready on

On the day before Christmas, the people came from all the country around to see and hear Brother Francis.

Men, women and children, dressed in their holiday clothes, walking, riding on donkeys, crowding into little

carts drawn by great white oxen, from everywhere and in every fashion, the country folk came toward

Greccio. Many came from far away, and the early winter darkness fell long before they could reach the town.

The light of their torches might be seen on the open road, and the sound of their singing reached the gates of

Greccio before them. That night the little town was almost as crowded as was Bethlehem on the eve of the

first Christmas. The crowds were poor folk, for the most part, peasants from the fields, charcoal burners from

the mountains, shepherds in their sheepskin coats and trousers, made with the wool outside, so that the

wearers looked like strange, twolegged animals. The four shepherds who had slept so soundly a few nights

before were of the company, but they knew nothing of their midnight visitors. The white dogs knew, but they

could keep a secret. The shepherds were almost as quiet as their dogs. They always talked and sang less than

Gathered at last into the square before the church, by the light of flaring torches, for the moon would rise late,

the people saw with wonder and delight the surprise which Brother Francis and Sir John had prepared for

them. They looked into a real stable. There was the manger full of hay, there were a live ox and a live ass.

Even by torch light their breath showed in the frosty air. And there, on the hay, lay a real baby, wrapped from

the cold, asleep and smiling. It looked as sweet and innocent as the Christ Child Himself. The people shouted

Then there was silence, for Brother Francis stood before them, and the voice they loved so well, and had

come so far to hear, began to read the old story of the birth of the Child Jesus, of the shepherds in the fields,

and of the angels' song. When the reading was ended, Brother Francis talked to them as a father might speak

to his children. He told of the love that is gentle as a little child, that is willing to be poor and humble as the

Baby who was laid in a manger among the cattle. He begged his listeners to put anger and hatred and envy

out of their hearts this Christmas Eve, and to think only thoughts of peace and good will. All listened eagerly

while Brother Francis spoke, but the moment he finished the great crowd broke into singing. From the church

tower the bells rang loud; the torches waved wildly, while voices here and there shouted for Brother Francis

and for the Blessed Little Christ. Never before had such glorious hymns nor such joyous shouting been heard

in the town of Greccio. Only the mothers, with babies in their arms, and the shepherds, in their woolly coats,

The story of the Troubadour is almost finished. The last years of his life were years of suffering and sorrow.

Now that the Brotherhood had grown so large, many of its members were forgetting the teaching of their

leader. Instead of serving Lady Poverty, they were serving Lady Wealth, or Lady Pride, or Lady Fame; and

they were Little Poor Men only on the outside, in their coarse grey robes and their unshod feet. This change

in his Brothers wellnigh broke the heart of Francis of Assisi. He remembered the first winter in the hovel at

Rivo Torto, when, in spite of cold and want, the little company had been so happy and so united. He

remembered the joy with which they had built the huts in the plain, and had planted their tiny gardens. It

seemed to him that his children were scattered far and wide over the world; that they were no longer simple

servants of all who needed help, but that each was striving for his own comfort and his own gain. There came

back to him an old dream. He had dreamed of a little black hen who had so many chickens that she could not

gather them all under her wings. Some would be left out, to die of cold or to be stolen by the fox. Even in his

grief, Francis smiled over his dream. "I am the little hen," he thought, "and I cannot any longer shelter my

Besides his sorrow, Francis had much illness and pain to bear. His body, "Brother Ass," as he sometimes

called it, was worn and weak, but his heart was brave, and his spirit was always sweet.

In those days, sick people could not have the help and comfort that doctors and nurses have learned to give.

There was no ether nor chloroform to put a patient out of pain, and surgery was horribly cruel. Once when

Francis was exceedingly ill, the doctors decided that they must burn his forehead with a hot iron. As the

surgeon came close to him with the terrible rod, heated till it looked white and quivering, Francis shrank

away fearfully for a minute. Then he lifted his hand and said cheerily: "Brother Fire, thou art one of the most

beautiful of all things, help me in this hour; thou knowest how I have always loved thee; be courteous to me

today." The Brothers, unable to bear the sight, had gone to the next room. A moment later, they came back,

and Francis, smiling on them, asked: "Why did you run away in such a cowardly fashion? I have not felt the

One great joy remained to Francis almost until the end, the joy of being out of doors. His love for a life under

the sky; his love for birds and flowers, for long journeys through the river valleys or among the high

mountains, never left him. One mountain he loved best of all. It is called La Verna, and it stands, wild and

beautiful, among the Tuscan Apennines. A certain Count Orlando, to whom all the region belonged, had once

heard Brother Francis preach, and had said to him: "I have a mountain in Tuscany. It is a silent and lonely

place, where one might rest and think and pray. If you would like it, I will gladly give it to you and to your

The old story says that Brother Francis was greatly pleased by this gift of the mountain. He thanked first God

and then Messer Orlando, and he promised that when he should return to the Portiuncula he would send some

of the Brothers to Messer Orlando, at his castle of Chiusi. This castle stood, and its roofless walls still stand,

So it happened, that when Count Orlando went home, he was visited by two Grey Brothers from Assisi, come

to see if, in the forest of La Verna, they might find a fit place for Brother Francis. Count Orlando received the

two Brothers with the greatest joy and friendliness, and, because the mountain was filled with wild beasts, he

sent armed men to escort the strangers. The Little Poor Men, with their guard of soldiers, searched about on

the steep, rocky mountain, till they found a small level place, like a natural terrace, looking off to the

southwest. "Here," they said, "is the right spot. Let us build huts for ourselves and for our Brothers."

The soldiers of Count Orlando began to cut down great branches from the fir trees and beeches, and, with

Then startled eyes looked out from the green shadows, and soft feet rustled away over the fallen leaves; and a

thousand pairs of wings made a whirring sound, for all the wild things of La Verna were disturbed by the

loud voices and the ringing axes of Count Orlando's soldiers, and Brother Francis was not there to understand

When the green, sweetsmelling huts were finished, the two Brothers with their guard of soldiers went back

to the castle of Chiusi to thank Count Orlando for his gift. Then they journeyed down to the plain of Assisi

and reported to Brother Francis that the Tuscan mountain was the fittest place in the world in which to think

and pray. Brother Francis rejoiced at the account of the two Brothers, and he thought it good that a company

of the Poor Men should keep at La Verna the Feast of St. Michael and All Angels, which comes at the end of

He started out bravely on foot, as of old, but during the long, rough journey, he became so weak that the

Brothers were forced to ask help of a peasant who was riding upon an ass. The peasant gave his beast to the

sick man, and walked beside him all the way, until they reached the sheer grey crags below the little huts that

Here they rested under an oak tree before making the steep climb. Brother Francis sat looking about the

place, of which he had heard so much, and, says the story: "As he was looking and thinking there came great

flocks of birds from every direction, singing and beating their wings, and they showed signs of joy and

welcome. They circled around Francis, so that some perched on his head, some on his shoulders, on his arms,

in his lap and even on his feet. His companions and the peasant saw them with wonder, but Francis said, all

happy of heart: 'I believe, dearest Brothers, that our Lord Jesus Christ is pleased that we are to live in this

lonely mountain, since our sisters and brothers, the birds, show such joy at our coming.' "

The little company lived for some weeks on the mountain. Apart from the others, that he might be more

alone, Francis had a tiny hut, and here he spent much time in prayer. Only Brother Leone was allowed to

come to him, before dawn each day, bringing his scant food. His only other comrade was a falcon, whose

shrill cry used to waken him long before light; but sometimes, when Brother Francis, worn and ill, lay

sleeping, Brother Falcon, like a person discreet and pitiful, would be silent until later in the morning.

The forest was full of singing birds, but sweeter music than theirs sounded sometimes in the ears of the Little

Poor Man, who, growing weaker and weaker in body, fixed his mind more and more on the glory and the joy

Once, as he thought on these things, longing to know what heaven might be like, he saw before him a most

beautiful angel with a viol in his left hand and a bow in his right. As Francis gazed, wondering, the angel

touched the strings with his bow and so soft a melody was heard that the spirit of Francis was filled with

One morning, in the hours before sunrise, Francis was kneeling in prayer not far from his hut, when a light

shone in the heaven above him, and came nearer and nearer. And, behold! it was a seraph with six wings

shining and aflame. As the seraph came nearer in swift flight he seemed to Francis like the figure of a man

crucified. Two wings were lifted above his head, and two outstretched in flight and two were folded down,

covering all his body. And Francis was filled with fear, and yet with great joy.

Then all the mountain of La Verna seemed to burn with rosiest flame. The flame shone out and lighted the

hills and valleys far away, as if it were the red light of dawn. The shepherds, watching their flocks, were

frightened to see the mountain all ablaze, and afterward they declared that the flame had lasted on La Verna

for an hour and more. The light shone even into the windows of the low houses and little inns in the country

round about; so that some mule drivers, who were sleeping at an inn not far away to the west, rose, and

saddled and loaded their mules, thinking that it was day. As they went on their journey they were astonished

to see the beautiful light fade away over La Verna, and, after an hour of darkness, the real sun rise.

If the shepherds on the hills, and the muleteers going sleepily along the road wondered and feared because of

the great light that was not dawn, the Brothers on La Verna wondered still more.

But Brother Francis knew what the vision meant. Often in these last years his life had seemed a failure, and

sometimes he had envied the martyrs of the early Church, and even his own Brothers who had given their

lives for the faith in Africa and in Spain. Now, the vision of pain and glory seemed to say to him: "Be

content, Little Poor Man, for not by the martyrdom of thy body, but by the fire of thy spirit, thou art made

like to thy Master, Christ." And the Brothers who wrote down the story tell how, from that wonderful hour

upon the mountain, their beloved leader bore on his hands and on his feet marks like the nailprints of the

Almost the first we know of Francis of Assisi is the story of the sweetvoiced lad who liked to sing gay

songs of love and war. Almost the last that we know of him is the more beautiful story of the song which he

made and sang only a little while before he died. He had been terribly ill, he was weak, and sad, and in great

pain, but, one morning, his friends heard the wonderful voice, strong and clear as of old, singing words that

they had never known. He had often sung the sweet old Latin hymns, but these words were Italian, and so

simple that it seemed as if the singer made them as he sang. And so he did. The weary, suffering man was

still at heart the Troubadour. He was still, as he used to call himself, the Lark, and, like the lark, he sang for

sheer happiness and praise. It is not easy to put the quaint old Italian into English; the beauty and the music

seem to disappear. The last song of God's Troubadour, the song that cheered his hours of pain and comforted

It was through this "Song of the Sun" that the last great joy of his life came to Francis. He was the guest of

the Bishop of Assisi in the same palace where, so long before, he had gone with the story of his father's anger

and his mother's grief. Bishop Guido must have been an old man now, but he was, as always, impulsive and

hottempered. He had kept a certain love for Francis all these years, but with most of his neighbours he was

often at odds. Just now a sharp feud was going on between the Bishop and the Governor of the city, and all

Assisi was in tumult. Francis loved his native town, and he loved peace with all his heart, and this quarrel

meant to him the deepest sorrow. His days were full of suffering, but he forgot himself, and only prayed that

One day he called a Brother to him and said: "Go to the Governor, and beg him to come with all the chief

men of the city to the porch before the Bishop's palace." The Governor came at this request from the dying

Francis, and when the Bishop stepped out at his palace door he found himself in a gathering of the very men

Just at that moment two Grey Brothers came forward before the two proud enemies, and one said: "My

Lords, Brother Francis has made a song for the praise of God, and he begs you will all listen to it," and they

began to sing "The Song of the Sun." They sang the praise of Sun and Moon, of Wind and Fire, of Sister

Water and Mother Earth; and then their voices rose higher and sweeter in a new stanza that Francis, in his

longing for peace, had added: "We praise Thee, Lord, for gentle souls who live In love and peace, who bear

with no complaint All wounds and wrongs; who pity and forgive; Each one of these, Most High, shall be Thy

The old story tells that the Governor listened, standing humbly "weeping hot tears, for he greatly loved the

blessed Francis. When the song was finished: 'Know in truth,' he said, 'that I pardon the Lord Bishop, whom I

wish and ought to regard as my lord, for even if some one had murdered my brother, I should be ready to

forgive the murderer.' After these words he threw himself at the feet of the Bishop and said to him: 'Behold

me, ready to do all that you wish, for love of our Lord Jesus Christ and for His servant Francis.'

"Then the Bishop, taking him by the hand, lifted him and said: 'In my calling, I ought to be humble, but since

A few days later Brother Francis was carried out from the Bishop's palace, and borne tenderly down the

familiar road toward the Portiuncula. At the Leper Hospital he asked his bearers to halt, and he looked back,

with dim eyes, lovingly, and, lifting his feeble hand, he blessed Assisi. Then the grey procession entered the

forest, and passed softly through the fallen leaves to the poor huts and the bright garden which had been the

And here the Troubadour, the Little Poor Man, died, happy and highhearted, singing praise, at the last, for