Chapter 2

fever, so ill that he could do nothing. He knew that he was now so weak that he would never be able to go and preach to the Saracens and be martyred. He would have to go home again, a failure. This was much harder to him than any danger or suffering, and the way he bore it, cheerfully and patiently for the love of Christ, made him much more pleasing to God than anything else. For God loves humble people, who are willing to do His Will, instead of choosing for themselves.

Seeing that God wanted his life rather than his death, St. Antony decided to go back to his own country and become as strong and well as possible. So he set sail. But when God sees that a man has altogether given up his own will, He takes full control of his journey through life, and makes things happen to show the man what to do. In this case God made St. Antony's ship get driven ashore on the island of Sicily. Here there happened to be a small house belonging to the Franciscans. It was while St. Antony was resting there that he heard that there was going to be a great chapter (or general meeting) of the Friars, at Assisi, and that St. Francis would be there; so he asked leave to go, and then set forth. This was to be the beginning of a new adventure.

When he got to Assisi he found two thousand Friars collected there for the chapter. The country people were providing all their food free.

You can imagine what St. Antony felt when he saw St. Francis! But when St. Francis called for volunteers to go on a dangerous mission to the fierce Germans, it must have cost him an awful lot to keep quiet. But he had learnt his lesson--God did not want of him a glorious death, only a patient life.

When the chapter came to an end all the Friars dispersed, some going gladly off on their dangerous quests, others collecting in little bands under their "ministers," as the head ones were called, and starting to tramp back to their friaries.

But St. Antony stood all alone. He had no brave quest to follow; no minister looked for him to go home with a party of cheerful Friars; no one cared what became of the young Portuguese stranger.

So St. Antony asked one of the ministers to take him and "form him in the practice of religious discipline." The minister little knew the wonderful gifts of this pale young stranger, with the beautiful, sad face, and sent him to a humble friary on the top of a steep, rocky mountain. There were only a few simple Friars there. One of them had hewed out a little cave in the rock. This he gave to St. Antony, who made it his cell. There he spent most of his day in prayer. But one job he specially made his own. What do you think it was? Why, washing up the plates and greasy dishes.

He didn't tell the Friars anything about himself, and of course they never guessed that their new brother, who always chose the meanest jobs, was a nobleman's son and a famous scholar of one of the greatest monasteries in Portugal.

For a whole year St. Antony lived like this. Do you think he wished himself back in the beautiful monastery in Portugal, with his books and his clever, interesting friends? No; for he loved what was God's Will for him above all things. People should not pine for the past, nor be impatient for the future; they should live heart and soul in the present, because the present is always what has just been provided by God, and so it is the best possible thing.

But God meant His faithful servant to be made known, and I will tell you, now, the wonderful way in which He made it happen.

In the town, not far from St. Antony's little friary, there was one day a meeting of Franciscan and Dominican Friars for an important ceremony. After the service the Superior asked the Dominicans, who were clever men and good preachers, to preach a sermon. But they all said they were not prepared; and so did the Franciscans. So the Superior turned to St. Antony, who had come as a companion of his Minister, and ordered him to preach. St. Antony tried to get out of it, but, finding he must obey, he walked slowly up into the pulpit.

The Friars did not expect much of a sermon. This was only poor Brother Antony, whose chief job was washing dishes.

St. Antony, ready to _do his best_ for God, did not think of himself a bit. He just turned over in his mind what would be the best thing to preach on so as to help his brothers and bring honour and glory to his God. By the time he was in the pulpit the Holy Spirit had put a text into his mind. He gave it out in his clear, ringing voice: "For us Christ became obedient unto death, even the death of the cross." Then he began to preach.

The Friars sat up and stared. The young, unknown Friar was pouring forth a wonderful flood of eloquence, full of the deepest thought, and showing such learning as none of them possessed. Only a scholar could preach like that; and only a scholar who was full of the fire of the Holy Ghost could move the hearts of his hearers as this man did!

The Friars and their Superiors sat spellbound. They quite forgot the preacher, and were carried away by his words into a greater love of God. When at last he ceased, and walked quietly down from the pulpit, his eyes on the ground, deep humility in his heart, his hearers turned to each other in wonder and delight, and all said they had never heard such a preacher in their lives.

Of course, the Superiors hurried off and told St. Francis all about it, and you can imagine how delighted St. Francis was to hear he had such a wonderful man among his Friars. It ended in St. Francis sending St. Antony to do what many years ago he had longed to do--that is, preach to the heretics who were teaching wrong things about the Christian Faith.

Still as humble as ever, St. Antony set out to tramp along the roads to the places at which he was to preach. Through Italy he went, and then France, and then Spain, and back to Italy, and on these journeys the most wonderful things happened. Not only did God give him the power of preaching such marvellous sermons that the people crowded in thousands to hear him, but He gave him the power to do miracles, like He once gave to His Apostles. As to the heretics, they simply couldn't stand up against St. Antony, and thousands of them either had to stop their false teaching and keep quiet, or else were converted and came over to St. Antony's side. Because of this he got the name, "Hammer of Heretics."

But it wasn't only to the heretics he preached. The ordinary people used to come in such crowds that there simply wasn't room in the churches for them, and St. Antony had to preach out in the fields and plains. Rich and poor used to come, clergy and ignorant peasants. The shopkeepers used to shut up their shops. The people were so much moved by his sermons that enemies forgave each other, men paid their debts, or creditors forgave their debtors; wicked people gave up their sinful life, and started trying to _do their best_ to become pleasing to God.

One day a band of twelve brigands who lived in the forest and robbed passers-by heard about the famous preacher. So they disguised themselves, and went to see if what was said of him was true. When he began to preach he completely won their hearts, and they repented of their sinful life. After the sermon they spoke to St. Antony, and confessed what wicked men they had been. He told them they must never go back to their robber life, and he said that those who gave it up would go some day to heaven, but that if any went back to it they would have miserable ends. And, sure enough, some who went back soon died horrible deaths. St. Antony told them to try and do something to make up for having been so wicked. One of them, he said, was to go twelve times in pilgrimage to the tomb of St. Peter and St. Paul at Rome. Years and years after, when this robber was an old, old man, he met a Friar on the road, and he told him how when he was young he had heard St. Antony preach, and how he had told him to go to Rome twelve times. "And now I am on my way back from Rome for the twelfth time," he said. That shows you what power St. Antony had.

There's no time now to tell you of all the miracles he did; but they were so wonderful that he came to be called the "Wonder-worker," and it showed everyone that God was with him.

And do you think all this honour and glory, and big crowds running after him, and great men praising him, made St. Antony proud or even the least bit pleased with himself? No; he stayed just as humble and retiring as he was in the days when he used to wash dishes in the mountain friary.

But St. Antony's hard life was beginning to tell on his health. For a long time he had secretly suffered from a very painful disease. It was now about nine years since the day he preached his first sermon and was sent forth by St. Francis on his great mission. As the summer drew on St. Antony ceased to preach, so as not to hinder the people's work in the vineyards. Also, he knew the end of his life was near. He longed for a little peace and solitude and silence; he longed to be alone with God to prepare for his great journey into the next world.

There was a nobleman called Count Tiso, who had a beautiful estate not far from Padua, a city St. Antony loved very much. Here St. Antony went for a time of rest. There was no rocky hill-side to make a cave which he might use as his cell, so he got Count Tiso to make him a cell in the great branches of a walnut-tree. These branches spread out not far above the ground, and between them Count Tiso wove reeds and willow twigs, and made a lovely little house for St. Antony. The thick, leafy branches above sheltered him from the hot sun; a few rough steps led up to it; and here St. Antony could spend his days in complete solitude.

But one evening when he had come down to have his evening meal with his companions, in the little friary near by, he was taken very ill, and his pain was so great that he could no longer sit upright.

He knew he was soon to die, and he longed to die at his beloved city, Padua. He was really much too ill to be moved, but when his companions saw how much he wanted this, they fetched a rough ox-cart and laid St. Antony in it.

I told you how St. Antony had longed to share Christ's sufferings and die a martyr's death--well, now was his chance. He was in such frightful pain that any tiny movement hurt him, and now he had to go mile after mile in a rough cart with no springs, jolting over the stony roads, the broiling Italian sun beating down upon him, the thick white dust choking his parched throat, the flies tormenting him. You can't imagine the agony he must have suffered. And yet he never grumbled--he was _glad_ of this chance of suffering; he felt he was really taking up his cross and following his beloved Master along the painful way to Calvary.

When the cart had nearly reached Padua, a Friar who had been sent to inquire after St. Antony met the little procession. He saw at once that St. Antony would not live to reach the city, so he made the Friars lift him from the cart and carry him to a little house of the Friars near by. It had been St. Antony's last great wish to die at Padua; but even this he gave up patiently and gladly and without a murmur.

In the little cell he lay, his pain getting worse and worse, and his weakness greater and greater. The Friars gave him the last rites of religion. "Then, raising his eyes," the old book says, "he looked fixedly on high. As he continued to gaze steadfastly towards heaven, the Friars asked him what he saw. He answered: 'I see my Lord.'"

Not long after, like one falling quietly asleep, he breathed out his last breath. "His loving, holy soul quitted the body, and, conducted by the good Jesus, entered into the joy of his Lord."

The little cell where St. Antony died still stands, and people can go in and look on the very walls his eyes looked on, the very floor on which his body lay. It is such a holy spot that a church has been built over it, and the little square cell stands inside the church.

That is the story of one of the holiest and humblest men who ever lived.

* * * * *

Very quietly the Cubs lay down on their palliasses, and fell asleep thinking of their new friend, St. Antony.

THE EIGHTH DAY

A pouring day! Luckily the Cubs remained in the sunny land of dreams till eight.

Meals had to be in the bell-tent. This was great fun! There was just room for a council circle, only you had to be careful not to put your feet in other people's porridge, or let your head rub against the tent. If you did, a stream of water soon began to run down your neck, and Akela said it _served you right_.

Every now and then the rain _nearly_ stopped, and everybody dashed out for a few minutes; but no sooner were you out, than the weather-fairy seemed to say, "Yah! Sold again!" and down came another sheet of rain that sent everyone scuttling for shelter.

The Cubs decided that it would be a good day to have a concert, and that there might be a rehearsal in the morning and the grand performance later on. So they sat round and made a lovely row; and some people sang some very pretty solos--but I will tell you about them when I tell you about the grand performance.

It cleared up for a little while before dinner, and the Cubs went out for a search for dry wood. Some of them went down to the shore, and there they found some boys with donkeys and ponies for hire, so they had some lovely rides up and down the sand, and no one fell off. Just as they got home the rain started again in torrents.

In the tent they found two visitors--old friends who had once known them in London. This made them think how lucky it was they had had a rehearsal, for now they would be able to give the visitors a concert, and then they would not be disappointed because of the rain. So after dinner the concert began.

First the whole Pack shouted the camp chorus--the same one which I told you they sang in the train. They then sang "John Peel." Then Bunny sang a solo called "Hush thee, my Baby." This was followed by a very pretty duet by Patsy and Mac--"'Tis the Last Rose of Summer" (Mac sang the alto very well). Then the whole Pack sang a song called "Robin Hood," which Akela had once made up for them. After that Bunny recited Brutus' speech from Shakespeare's play, "Julius Caesar"--he made you feel he really _was_ Brutus, and everyone clapped him. Then four Cubs sang "Annie Laurie," in parts. Then they all made Spongey sing a song. Spongey was very shy, and said he couldn't. But in the end he sang a very short song, in a very deep voice, called, "Oh-oh-oh, it's a Loverly War." Of course, everyone cheered themselves hoarse.

Then the Pack sang "The Golden Vanity" right through all its many verses. This was followed by a solo from Mac--a sad little Irish song--and another duet by Mac and Patsy, "When Irish Eyes are Smiling," followed by "Oh Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast," sung in parts by Jack, Patsy, and Mac. Then everyone sang choruses.

The visitors enjoyed it very much.

By the end of the programme it was quite impossible for the Cubs to sit still for another moment. You can't get much exercise in a wet bell-tent. So Akela had a bright idea. If you were _in_ the sea the rain couldn't wet you--what about a bathe? Everyone cheered, and got into their coats and macs, and ran down to the Stable, where they changed into their bathing things. The sea felt awfully warm, and everyone shrieked and splashed and made such a row that the visitors, all shut up stuffy and cross in their lodgings, looked out of their windows and wondered who _could_ be so cheerful on such a day.

Coming back to tea, the Cubs were delighted to find their Scoutmaster sitting on the floor of the bell-tent, a large bun in one hand and a mug of tea in the other. He had tramped all the way over from Quarr to see how far the whole camp had been drowned. In case there were any survivors, he brought two enormous bags of sweets.

That night all the Cubs prayed very hard for a real, proper, hot day for their last in camp. It certainly did not look possible. But Spongey put the matter in a nutshell when he stood in his long night-shirt, one eye shut as usual, and remarked: "I think it'll sunshine to-morrer, 'cos I've prayed very hard it will."

The Cubs had turned in early, to get out of the wet world into their dry, cosy beds. There was plenty of time for a good long story, and they settled down with wriggles of satisfaction and waited for Akela to begin.

THE STORY OF ST. PATRICK.

Nearly four hundred years after Our Lord had gone up to heaven, and left His disciples and their followers to carry on, a boy was born who was destined to be one of God's greatest Saints, and to bring thousands and thousands of pagans into the Christian Faith. This boy was St. Patrick, called the Apostle of Ireland, because he turned the whole of Ireland Christian. For many hundreds of years after St. Patrick had died, Ireland was like a fruitful garden in which sprang up hundreds of Saints and holy and learned men, who helped to spread the knowledge and love of Christ all over the world. So St. Patrick was truly an Apostle, and, like St. John and St. Andrew and the others, one of the foundation-stones of Christ's great Church.

But though he _ended_ in being so very important, and doing things that made a great difference to the whole world, he _began_ as an ordinary boy--and rather a naughty one, as he tells us himself. We know a great deal about St. Patrick, and we know it is quite true, because when he was over one hundred years old he wrote it all down himself. He called the book his "Confession," and though he told us such a lot about himself, beginning with the adventures of his boyhood, there is one thing he did not put down in the book. Can you guess what? Well, he did not put down how good he was. For, you see, the Saints never thought themselves good, because, instead of comparing themselves with people _less good than themselves_, as we are all so fond of doing, they kept on comparing themselves with Our Blessed Lord, and of course, that made them seem very, very far from perfect.

When St. Patrick was a boy he did not love God or believe all his Christian teachers told him, nor was he obedient or ready to _do his best_. One day some fierce pirates raided the land where he lived with his father and mother, and carried him off captive with lots of other boys. Sailing across the sea to Ireland, the pirates sold the boys as slaves.

St. Patrick was bought by a great chief called Milcho, and sent out on to the hill-sides to watch the sheep. Do you think he was lonely and afraid? No. For, when torn away from his home, from the friends who loved him, he had discovered that there is one Friend that you can't be dragged away from, and Who can be with you even in the midst of the tossing green sea, on a pirate ship. For, though Patrick had forgotten God, God had not forgotten Patrick. "The Lord," he says, "showed me my unbelief, and had pity on my youth and ignorance."

So when he trudged out on to the mountain-side, he was not sad and alone, but glad in the knowledge that his unseen Friend was with him.

"Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ in me, Christ above me, Christ beneath me, Christ in the chariot, Christ in the fort, Christ in the ship."

That is a prayer St. Patrick made up himself. There, on the rough mountain-side, the boy St. Patrick spent all his lonely days talking to God, so that, he says, "more and more the love of God and His faith and fear grew in me, and my spirit was stirred." He tells us that he would recite one hundred prayers in one day, and nearly as many in the night.

He had to sleep out with the sheep in some rough cave or hut. "Before the dawn," he says, "I was called to pray by the snow, the ice, and the rain." But he did not mind this outward cold, because of the burning heart within him.

St. Patrick had learnt his lesson--the lesson of where to find the only comfort and friendship and help worth having. God wanted him, now, for the great work he was to do. One night a mysterious voice told him that if he went to a certain place he would find a ship ready to take him home. The place was about two hundred miles away, and St. Patrick had never been there. However, trusting in God's help, he started off. At last, after a long tramp, he reached the town, and, sure enough, there was a ship at the quay about to set sail. St. Patrick asked to be taken on board, but when the sailors heard he had no money they refused him a passage. St. Patrick went sadly away, but as he went he prayed. Before long he heard someone coming after him. Turning round, he found it was one of the sailors, who said after all they would take him.

I can't tell you now of the adventures St. Patrick had on his way home, but after being shipwrecked and nearly starved, and each time wonderfully saved by God, he reached his father's house. But though he was home again with those he loved, he did not forget the Friend Who had been his all in those cold, hard days in Ireland. He thought of Him all day, and of how best to please Him. He had already begun studying for a life in God's service, when he had a wonderful vision of the people of Ireland calling him to come to their help, and he knew it was a sign from God that this was the work he was to do. You can imagine how impatient he must have been to get a ship and go sailing back to Ireland to tell the people about the true God, and how Christ had died on the Cross for them, and all the rest; but for such a difficult and dangerous job he needed a lot of training--not only in learning, but in the strength and holiness and obedience to God which should make him able to face the task before him. How long do you think God kept him at his training? Thirty-eight years!

At the end of this time a holy man who was his friend and guide was sent to preach in Britain. St. Patrick went with him. This was the first step, and it ended in his being made a Bishop and sent--at last--to the lifework he had so long waited for, the conversion of Ireland.

When St. Patrick's ship came to shore, the wild men of Leinster would not let him land. So, trusting as usual to God, he sailed out again to sea, and landed a little farther to the south. There seemed to be nobody about, to stop him; and, tired out, I suppose, with a day of exploring in the strange land, St. Patrick lay down and fell asleep. A little Irish boy chanced to come along, and, seeing a stranger asleep, crept up on tip-toe to look at him. What a lovely, kind face he had! The boy thought to himself that he had never before seen anybody who looked so nice, and he longed to do him some good turn. He couldn't think of anything to do for someone who was asleep, but at last he got an idea. Picking all the best flowers he could find, he put them round St. Patrick for a surprise for him.

When St. Patrick woke up you can imagine how pleased he was with the flowers, and still more pleased to see a little Irish boy smiling at him shyly from among the bushes. Before long St. Patrick and the boy had become great friends, and the boy simply wouldn't go away, but stuck to St. Patrick. Then God made known a secret of the future to St. Patrick, and he said: "Some day he will be the heir to my kingdom." And, sure enough, the boy, whose name was Benignus, succeeded St. Patrick as Bishop of Armagh. Don't you wish you were that boy, always to stay with St. Patrick?

After this the most wonderful adventures began to befall St. Patrick; but even more wonderful than the adventures were the miracles by which he managed to escape out of them, not only alive, but victorious.

Getting into his ship again, St. Patrick landed farther north. Once more the fierce Irish set on him and his little band, and their chief, Dichu, raised his sword to bring it crashing down on St. Patrick's head. But, somehow, his arm stayed stiff in mid-air, and he could not strike the blow. Dichu was an honest man, and soon understood that such a miracle must be a sign from the true God. If once you believe in God--well, the only possible thing is to serve Him. So Dichu became a Christian, and humbly learned from St. Patrick how he should serve God.

Then St. Patrick went to the house of the very chief who had kept him as a slave, and converted his children to the true Faith. But it was at Easter that something very thrilling happened, and was the beginning of St. Patrick's real triumphs.

The Chief-King of Erin (as Ireland was called) was just going to hold his solemn festival at Tara. All the Irish princes and all the priests of the pagan religion had collected together. One of their ceremonies was the lighting of fire at dawn, with magic rites and ceremonies. It happened to be Holy Saturday, and on that day the Christians used to light a beacon. St. Patrick lit his holy fire, as usual. The King saw it blazing on a hill-top, and was very angry. One of his priests (or Druids, as they were called) said: "If that fire is not put out before morning, it never will be put out," and he meant the Christian Faith. So the King sent for St. Patrick.

Surrounded by his Druids and bards, and all the Irish princes, the King sat, fierce and proud, and awaited the strangers. It was Easter morning, so, as St. Patrick and his little band advanced, they chanted the Easter litanies. So noble and holy did St. Patrick look that one of the bards rose as he drew near. This little act of politeness on the part of the bard brought him special grace from heaven, and he accepted the Christian Faith.

Standing quietly in the midst of the circle of priests and princes, St. Patrick looked around him. He met countless pairs of fierce eyes fixed upon him, as the princes sat in silence, "with the rims of their shields against their chins"; and as he looked at them he longed to win them all for God, and he prayed for grace and power to do what was needed. Then he told them why he had come to Ireland.

The King left his Druids to reply. They did so by doing all sorts of horrible magic. And certainly they made things happen, much as people called "spiritists" do nowadays; but it was not by God's power, so it must have been the Devil who helped them. Whatever the Druids did, St. Patrick undid, and then did something more wonderful. The Druids were furious, and no one knows what might have happened had not St. Patrick caused an earthquake to happen, by God's power. So terrified were the Irish that they went half mad and began killing each other, and St. Patrick and his men escaped.

But the next day St. Patrick boldly came back, though he knew the King meant to kill him. He was given a cup of poisoned wine to drink. Well, what of that? Did not Our Lord say to His disciples, when He sent them out to convert the world, "If you drink any deadly thing it shall not hurt you"? St. Patrick made the sign of the cross over the cup and drank it, and nothing happened.

Then the Druids arranged a horrible test. They laid two great fires, one of dry faggots and the other of wet, green wood. On the dry wood they laid the boy Benignus, dressed in a Druid's white robe. On the green they put a Druid, clad in St. Patrick's cloak. Then they said they would set fire to both piles. St. Patrick accepted the challenge. (If you had been the boy, would you have "got the wind up," do you think, or would you have trusted St. Patrick?)

Well, they set fire to the two piles of wood. Strange to say, the green wood blazed up, with many sizzlings and cracklings and much smoke, but the dry wood simply wouldn't light. There was, however, a sudden flame, and the Druid's robe on the boy flared up and was soon burnt to ashes, leaving Benignus quite all right, and, I expect, very pleased with himself! Meanwhile, horrible noises had been coming from the other pile, and when the smoke and flames died down there were only charred cinders where there had once been a Druid. But St. Patrick's cloak had not been burnt at all.

As the King still would not believe, St. Patrick had to make another earthquake happen, which swallowed up so many of the King's subjects that he gave in, and said St. Patrick might preach, though he himself never accepted the Faith.

So, on the green plains of Tara, St. Patrick preached a wonderful sermon to the Irish, who by this time had come crowding round to see the stranger who could beat the Druids at their own game. During this sermon St. Patrick stooped down and picked a leaf of shamrock, and, holding it up, showed the people how the little green leaf was _three_ and yet _one_. He said that would help them to understand how the Blessed Trinity is three--God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost--and yet is really only _one God_. That is why the Irish wear shamrock on St. Patrick's Day (March 17th).

Many more miracles did St. Patrick which I can't tell you about now; and he went from place to place, winning thousands of men for Christ, and giving spiritual life to their souls by baptizing them.

One Shrove Tuesday St. Patrick went up on to the top of a lonely, rugged mountain above the sea, and there he stayed without any food all through Lent till Easter. And all the time he prayed and prayed and prayed for the men of Ireland and their fate on the Judgment Day. At the end of his long and painful time of prayer God sent an angel to tell him his request was granted. So, with his heart full of joy, St. Patrick knelt and blessed Ireland, and as he gave his blessing hundreds of poisonous snakes came out of their holes and went slithering away into the sea, where they were all drowned. (That is why you see pictures of St. Patrick with snakes.) And now, every year, thousands of Irish people go on pilgrimage up that mountain.

Before I end I must just tell you one little story about a young Irish Prince who _didn't give in to himself_. This Prince and his followers, after hearing St. Patrick preach, decided to become followers of Christ and be baptized. St. Patrick, being a Bishop, carried a thing called a crozier--a kind of long staff, like a shepherd's crook, because _Bishop_ means _shepherd_. St. Patrick's crozier had rather a sharp point at the end, and during the ceremony of Baptism, somehow, by accident, he pierced the Prince's bare foot with it, but did not notice what he had done. The Prince said nothing, and did not wince or seem surprised. Afterwards, when St. Patrick found out what he had done, and asked the Prince why he had said nothing, the Prince replied: "I thought it was the rule of faith." A bit of poetry has been written about it, which puts it rather nicely. The Prince says, in it:

"I thought, thus called to follow Him Whose Feet Were pierced with nails, haply the blissful rite Some little pain included."

Everywhere St. Patrick went he was loved, and soon the fame of him had spread through the whole country. The superstitious religion of the Druids altogether died down, and Ireland became a Christian country. St. Patrick made a set of wise laws, and by these the Irish were governed for a thousand years.

At last came the time when his great work was finished. The little boy, Benignus, had grown up and taken over St. Patrick's work. St. Patrick had written his "Confession." And now, at one hundred and twenty, he was quite ready for the rest and the reward of heaven. He was very happy; his great work had been accomplished. God had been very good to him. And so, satisfied, he lay down to die, knowing that all the men of Ireland were praying for their beloved father.

So, on March 17th, in the year 493, St. Patrick passed from this world into the glory of Heaven.

THE NINTH DAY

As the Cubs one by one opened their eyes on the last day at camp, the first thing they saw was that their prayers of last night had been fully, _wonderfully_ answered. The sun shone with that clear golden radiance of early morning sun. The sky was a misty blue, with just a few small "flocks of sheep." The wind had dropped, and the world, washed clean by the rain, was going to enjoy itself to-day.

Quickly the Cubs washed themselves and scrambled into their old clothes, and were away up to the field in record time. The smell of wood smoke; the cry of the sea-gulls; the _bigness_ of God's beautiful world--only one more day of it all!

Porridge out in the sunshine, and lots and lots of bread-and-jam. Then down to the shore.

On the way shorewards the Cubs met a kind lady who lived in the little house at the end of the sea-wall. She had often seen them run past, and now she stopped and asked Akela what they were. When she heard it was their last day she said they might have her boat for the whole morning!

So the Cubs and Akela all got into their bathing things, and the boat was rowed round from where it was anchored to the bit of the shore where they always played. When everyone had been out and had learnt to row, first with one oar and then with two; and when the tide had gone down, down, down, as far as it could, Akela anchored the boat in shallow water, and took away all the oars but one. Then the Cubs had a gorgeous time, rowing by themselves, as far as the long rope would allow. I don't know what that boat turned into--pirate vessels, the _Golden Hind_, and everything else you can imagine, while the gallant crew had many an adventure.

Meanwhile, _another_ kind lady had appeared on the scene. She lived in a nice house, with a very sloping lawn in front, and her garden steps came right down on to the bit of sand where the Cubs always played. She came down and offered a prize for the best little house or model village or garden the Cubs could make. Four couples set to work, and by dinner-time there were some splendid models ready. Then "Big Andy and Little Andy," clad only in their bathing-drawers, walked demurely up to the front-door of the house, and asked the lady to come and see. She came out carrying two lovely spades, two splendid shrimping-nets, and two very nice rubber balls.

She decided the "Andies" had got first prize; they had made a model of Quarr Abbey; Sam and Dick were second, with a church; while Bert and Bunny came in a good third, with a very nice house standing in a large and luxurious garden. After giving the prizes, this fairy godmother invited the whole Pack to tea in her garden, at four o'clock, after the afternoon bathe!

So, after dinner, they went to the Stable and made themselves a little bit respectable, and then down to the shore and bathed, and afterwards went up the smooth, steep lawn to the fairy godmother's house.

Soon a maid brought out tea; and it was _some_ tea--cake of all sorts, and real bread-and-butter (not "marg."), and little jam-sandwiches (but, as one Cub remarked, "it didn't _fill you up_, like camp-tea").

After tea, during which the Cubs were wonderfully quiet and well-behaved, they entertained their hostess with various kinds of somersaults and cart-wheels, and then went through a large part of the famous concert for her benefit. Before going they gave her a Grand Howl, and then all shook hands with her.

After that they played on the shore, and then ended up with a last bathe, about seven.

Back to supper. Camp prayers for the last time in the soft evening light. Good-night to Father and Mother and Godmother; and then to the Stable, for the last story.

But as they squatted round waiting for the story, someone made a remark that was the beginning of quite a long pow-wow. "Miss," he said, "shall we be Cubs in _Heaven_, and will you be our Cubmaster?"

Everyone had questions to ask about Heaven--more than Akela knew how to answer! And then they grew serious as someone mentioned two Cubs who had died a year before. "Do you think Frank and Bob have found each other in heaven?" "Yes," said Akela, "I'm sure they have; and I expect they've found those two Cubs from two other Westminster Packs, who died of 'flu, last winter."

And that is why this book is dedicated to Frank and Bob, for they were two of the most faithful Cubs who ever lived. They died brave and unselfish--Bob after a long and very painful illness, in which he never _gave in to himself_, but was always thinking of other people and his "little 'uns." At last, as he lay delirious, he used to think he was in camp again, and say: "Oh, mother, look at the green fields--aren't they lovely?" And as Akela knelt by his bed, holding his poor little hot hand, she felt sure that soon he would be playing in the green fields of Heaven--the best camp of all, where the Good Shepherd was already waiting to carry him in His strong, kind arms.

And now someone else had a splendid idea: "Perhaps they've talked to the Saints!"

"_We_ shall know a lot of the Saints when _we_ go to Heaven," said another Cub; "_I_ shall look out for St. Antony first."

And so they decided to try and get to know as many Saints as possible before they died, _and to try and copy them_, so that some day they would find lots of friends in Heaven, who would not be ashamed to receive the salutes of their little brothers, and to return them with kind smiles of welcome.

Then the Cubs settled down for a last story.

THE STORY OF ST. GEORGE.

"And now," said the Cubs, "a last story! Go on, Miss--make it an _extra_ good one, exciting and full of adventures, and the best of all, because it's the last night."

"Very well," said Akela, "I'll tell you the story of the Patron Saint of all Cubs and Scouts, and of England. Who's that?"

"St. George!" cried the Cubs in chorus. And although many of them knew the story very well, they snuggled down in their blankets and prepared to enjoy themselves.

Well (said Akela), I'm going to tell you the story of the Saint who was more thought about and honoured in the old days than, perhaps, any other Saint who ever lived. He was from the very earliest times--in fact, from directly after his death--called "the Great Martyr." He became the patron of many countries and orders of knighthood, but specially in England was he loved, and his feast was kept as a great holiday, equal to Christmas. Already, before William the Conqueror came to England, our forefathers had begun to build churches in honour of St. George. But it was King Richard Coeur de Lion who specially spread devotion to St. George in England, because he took him as his own patron, and used his name as his battle-cry. "For God and St. George!" he would shout, as he swung his mighty battle-axe in the air and charged at the head of his knights toward the Saracen lines.

St. George several times appeared on a white horse, and led the Crusaders to victory when it seemed as if the enemy were going to put them to flight and come off victorious.

Many people think of St. George as a knight on a prancing horse, who killed a dragon and rescued a maiden in distress. But this is only a kind of parable or picture of the real St. George and what he did. The dragon is a picture of the wicked, heathen religion that tried to kill the beautiful young Church that Our Lord had made. St. George fought this dragon, and gave his life in the battle, but he rescued the maiden (who represents the Church); for his death seems to have rallied the Christians and filled them with new courage to fight bravely and stick to it, until at last the heathen dragon was overcome, and the Church of Christ was able to fill all the world with joy and truth and light.

Well, now I will tell you what the old books say about St. George; but we have not many details about his life, as we have about St. Francis's.

St. George lived a bit more than three hundred years after Christ. He was the son of a Roman soldier, a Christian, stationed in Palestine, which was a Roman colony. St. George was one of those brave, straightforward boys who are afraid of nothing--neither of themselves and their weakness, nor of other people and their unkindness. He practised "not giving in to himself," like a good Cub; and he thought a great deal of his _honour_, like a good Scout. And he knew that everything brave or good that he ever did was by the grace of his Captain, Christ, and not because he was any better himself than anybody else. He could ride well, shoot an arrow straight, and use a spear or a broadsword as well as any Roman boy. But it was not so much this as his way of obeying quickly, and keeping his word, and never giving in to himself, which made him rise from promotion to promotion when he joined the Roman army.

He was still very young when he was made what we should now call a Colonel, and given a great deal of responsibility. In fact, the Emperor thought no end of him, and people whispered that some day he would be head of the army and one of the most important men in the Roman Empire. This was rather wonderful, because the Emperor, Diocletian, was a heathen and hated Christians, and, as I told you, St. George was a very good Christian.

In those days the Christian Church was no longer hiding in the Catacombs, but had come out into the open, and nearly half Diocletian's Empire was Christian. But something--probably pride--made Diocletian hate the Christians, and he decided to do all he could to destroy the Church of Christ, and force the people back into the old religion, and worship a god that was really not very different from Caesar, the Emperor, himself.

So he first tried burning down the churches, and then imprisoning the priests and bishops. But one day he suddenly got mad, and gave an order that if the people would not worship the Roman gods and offer incense to them, and swear that they no longer believed in Christ, his soldiers would kill them like beasts and leave them in the streets, as a ghastly warning to any other fools who refused to obey.

So the soldiers went forth, sword in hand, and every man, woman, and child who refused to give up Christ was killed, or wounded and left to bleed to death.

Now, no one had thought that Diocletian would ever go as far as this, and when the horrible news was brought to St. George he was filled with rage. The Emperor was, of course, his master, but there and then he vowed that he would not stay in the service of a vile murderer, a coward who could stain his sword with the blood of women and little children; and he prepared at once to go to the Emperor, and say straight out all that was burning in his heart.

Now, his friends knew that nothing would more enrage the Emperor than this, because he thought a lot of St. George, and yet he was proud and obstinate, and nothing would make him stop persecuting the Christians. If St. George spoke as he said he would, it would certainly mean _no chance of promotion_, no becoming head of the army; perhaps, even, it would mean imprisonment; possibly death. So they simply _begged_ St. George not to go. But do you think he was that sort? Not much! The last thing he wanted was promotion in the army of a man who was the cruel enemy of Christ and the murderer of his fellow-Christians. So he set spurs to his horse, and rode off for the Emperor's Court.

Diocletian was surprised to see him arrive suddenly, travel-stained and apparently in a great hurry; and still more was he surprised when, instead of speaking with reverence and respect, he let the words almost burst forth from his full heart, and told the Emperor that it would be better if he paid honour to the God from Whom he had received his sceptre, instead of murdering the faithful servants of that God.

Diocletian was first surprised and then angry. But he tried to laugh it off, because he was really fond of St. George. Then he tried reasoning with the young soldier, and explaining that he had to keep the Christians in good discipline in case they might revolt or get proud and rebellious. But St. George would listen to no reasons or excuses, and, unbuckling his sword, he laid it down, resigning his commission in the army of a man who could act so dishonourably.

Then Diocletian got very angry indeed. He gave orders that St. George should be put in a dark dungeon, and loaded with chains until his pride should be broken, and he should be willing to humble himself before the Emperor. So angry was he that he made up his cruel mind that now he would even force St. George to give up the Christian religion himself, and that no pains should be spared to make him do this.

Alone in the dark, dank, icy-cold dungeon, St. George lay in his heavy chains, and wondered what was going to happen next. It was very horrible, down there, and he ached in every limb, and he was very hungry; but somehow he felt kind of glad inside, because he knew he was suffering all this for Christ's sake.

One day, when his gaoler brought him his ration of hard bread, he told him that he had heard a rumour that the executioner was coming to the dungeon, and that if St. George did not give a satisfactory answer he would be put to torture. The gaoler said it would, he thought, be a very painful kind of torture, and St. George had better be reasonable.

When he had gone St. George sat in the darkness with his heart beating rather fast. He wondered what sort of torture it would be, and if he would be able to stick it. Then he remembered that Our Lord had suffered awful tortures, and had foretold that His friends would have to, as well. So he asked Our Lord to give him grace to be able to stick _anything_ the Emperor should do, and then he felt quite happy again.

Well, the hours dragged by, and at last St. George heard the tramp of feet on the stone stairs. Then there was a creak as the great key was turned in the lock, and bolts were shot back. The door opened, and there stood the executioner and two soldiers, one carrying a lantern.

The executioner, who had known St. George as a Colonel in the army, spoke respectfully. He gave St. George a message from the Emperor, saying that if he would come back and offer incense to the gods, and apologize for his proud words, he would get his liberty and be given back his commission. St. George laughed, and said he certainly wouldn't. Then the executioner said that in that case the Emperor had commanded that he should be tortured till he agreed to do all he was told.

The soldiers loosened his chains, and he was led out and up the stairs. The blazing, blinding sun dazzled his eyes after the dimness of the dungeon. The pavement of the courtyard seemed burning to his cold, bare feet. Soldiers looked curiously at him as he passed, but of course didn't salute, now. He was taken away to the horrible place of execution, and there a new form of torture was applied to him--a great wheel full of spikes into which he was thrust. When he was dragged out his body was one mass of wounds, and his blood dripped down on to the floor. He was carried on a stretcher back to the dungeon; and the executioner felt quite sure that when he was well enough to answer he would agree to do anything the Emperor wanted.

St. George was dazed with pain and loss of blood. His body seemed to burn all over. The darkness made his eyes ache, and he lay hour after hour, wondering how soon he would die. He had got to the point when he thought he simply couldn't bear another moment, when he heard a Voice in the darkness, and It said: "Fear not, George, for I am with thee."

His heart seemed to leap up, for he knew for certain that it was Our Lord's Voice--he could not possibly mistake it. And suddenly all the pain seemed a thousand times worth while, and he was glad he had had it; and he didn't feel lonely any more; and he just lay in the darkness and talked to Our Lord, knowing that He was near. And he forgot his pain.

Well, when a Roman officer came to receive his message to the Emperor St. George was able to laugh--rather weakly this time--and say he had no message for the Emperor, except that he had better stop murdering Christians, and beg God's mercy before it was too late.

The officer thought St. George was rather a fool, and a very brave man, and he went back to the Emperor.

A few days later the executioner arrived once more, and again led St. George across the sunny courtyard. St. George remembered the Voice of Christ saying, "I am with thee," and he was not afraid. This time they rolled a great heavy stone over his body, so that his bones were crushed and bruised, and then they carried him back to the dungeon.

When the officer came for his answer he could hardly believe that St. George dared still to refuse. He told the Emperor what St. George had said. The Emperor was surprised and sorry, for he saw that St. George must be a very brave man. He also saw that it was no good waiting any longer, or trying to force him, so he sent the executioner once again.

This time the executioner told St. George that his last chance had come. Either he must give up Christ, or he must face death. The words sent a kind of thrill through St. George--a thrill of horror at the thought of death, which turned into a thrill of joy at the thought of going into the presence of Christ, and hearing His wonderful Voice again, only this time seeing Him, too. And he rejoiced, also, to think he would really be a _martyr_. So he whispered faintly--for he could hardly speak now--that nothing in all the world would make him give up Christ.

So the soldiers took off his chains and dragged him up to his feet, and he walked slowly, with weak, swaying steps, into the sun.

"Fear not." He said the words over to himself. No, he wouldn't fear! "I am with thee." How wonderful! "And soon," he said in his heart, "_I_ shall be with _Thee_!" And so he knelt down and waited.

And the executioner's great axe flashed in the sun as he swung it aloft, and the next instant the blood of "the Great Martyr" was streaming across the white pavement, as St. George's Cross streams scarlet across the white ground of his flag.

The soul of "the Great Martyr" had entered Heaven, where the angels rejoiced at his coming, when the Christians picked up his poor, broken body and carried it away. It was buried in a beautiful tomb, and before long a great church had been built over it. On every hand people talked of "the Great Martyr," and the Christians rejoiced at his courage, and cheered each other on to resist bravely. Many of the heathen, seeing that St. George could suffer tortures and die for his faith, began to believe in the Christ he loved, and were baptized. Diocletian himself began to fear a little, and the butchering stopped.

And so it was that the maiden in distress, the persecuted Church of Christ, was saved by her brave knight, St. George.

GOOD-BYE

A grey morning, but quite fine. Some of the Cubs went off to bathe after breakfast, others to do final shopping and buying of presents to take home, while some stayed in the field to help with the packing. The tent was struck and rolled up, swings and hammocks taken down, palliasses emptied and done up in bales, and by twelve o'clock all was finished, and the time came to change out of the comfy old camp clothes into full uniform. How tight and hot boots and stockings seemed!

After dinner the Cubs gathered round into the council circle. Everyone was feeling rather quiet. Akela had a short pow-wow, and then the Cubs squatted and let off a mighty Grand Howl, as a "thank you" to everyone concerned for the glorious time they had had, and as a sign that they were going back to London meaning to _do their best_ as never before.

Then they fell in, two deep, and, with a last look at the field, marched away.

There was plenty of time before the boat was due to sail from Ryde, so, after marching smartly through the village, they fell out and strolled along the wall or the seashore. On reaching Ryde they fell in again, and halted near the fountain, two at a time falling out for drinks. At Smith's bookstall Akela bought a supply of "comics" to read in the train.

On board the ship an adventure happened. Big Andy _of course_ dropped his cap overboard. The sea was rather rough and it seemed as if the cap must be lost, two stars and all. It was too far down to reach with the ship's mop or any stick. But luckily some thoughtful Cub had brought a long piece of string with an open safety-pin on the end, in hopes of catching a fish on the crossing. With this the cap was fished for, while the people on the pier and the first-class passengers on the upper deck looked on with eager interest. Akela thought there was no hope of ever seeing the cap again on Andy's head. She little knew that two pious Cubs were busy _praying_! Presently the cap was triumphantly pulled up, amidst cheers from the pier and the upper deck.

"I prayed he'd get it!" cried a Cub.

"And so did I!" exclaimed another.

At Portsmouth there was a terrible crush for the train, but, as usual, the Cubs did well, for the kind guard gave them two first-class compartments and locked them in.

And so they travelled back to dear, smoky old London, very much browner and a good deal fatter than when they set out.

THE END

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY BILLING AND SONS, LTD., GUILDFORD AND ESHER

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Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

Page 42, "at" changed to "as" (important as Akela)