Part 3

From time immemorial, a lamp burns every night before this little shrine: the oil is provided by the poor women of the vicinity (and they are very poor indeed), each one laying by a few _centesimi_ every week for the purpose.

*Il Crocifisso della Providenza*

The streets of Florence are fair to see, With palace and church and tower, And there the mighty of earth have dwelt, And the whole world feels their power.

And many come from the East and West To gaze on its beauty rare; To stand where the wise and great have stood, For their presence is ever there.

But they never think of the narrow streets Where the poor of the city dwell; Those humble houses, so bare and plain, Have tales of their own to tell.

There's one by the San Frediano gate, Not far from the city wall; Some Latin words on its front engraved The memory still recall

Of one, a beggar, to all unknown, Who knocked at the door one day; Of what a blessing he left behind That morn when he went his way,

It happened hundreds of years ago, But they tell the story still; So listen now to the legend old, And smile at it if you will.

But if you smile, be it not in scorn; The tale which I now relate Has lightened many a heavy heart By the San Frediano gate.

Long since, they say, in that ancient house There were orphan maidens three, And in the chamber above the door, Whose window you still may see,

They worked and prayed, by the world unseen; And ever, the long day through, The needles stitched, and the spindle twirled, And the knitted garment grew.

So young, and one of them yet a child, With never an earthly friend; They prayed each day for the daily bread Which they knew the Lord would send.

And toiling cheerfully, lived content, Nor ever of want complained, But freely shared with the needy poor The little their labour gained.

But evil days to the sisters came, And their faith was sorely tried: A merchant, one of the first in town, That winter had failed and died.

And many debts had he left behind, And their work was all unpaid; For he it was who had bought and sold The delicate wares they made.

They prayed for help, and they sought for work; But awhile they sought in vain. They pledged the ring that their father wore, And their mother's golden chain.

Then work they found, but for neighbours poor, And some of them could not pay; 'T was well for them that the spring began, And the cold had passed away.

And one by one, as the days went on, Were the household treasures sold,-- The copper pitcher, the brazen lamp, And the nut-wood table old,

The pot of pinks from the window-sill-- But when they had sold them all, An ancient crucifix, carved in wood, Still hung on the whitewashed wall

Above the chest where the loaves were kept; Such blessing its presence shed, It seemed to them like a living friend, And not like an image dead!

In all their troubles, in all their joys, That crucifix bore a part; Above all comfort, or wealth, or gain, 'T was dear to the sisters' heart!

As babes, before they could understand, Or ever a prayer repeat, Each day their father had held them up, While they kissed the carven feet.

So April came, and so April went; And they lived, the Lord knows how! The elder sister had saved and spared, But the chest was empty now.

That very evening she broke in halves, And gave to the younger two, One piece of bread--'t was the last they had; There was nothing more to do,

Unless, unless--and she looked at them, And then at the image dear: She touched it once; but her hand drew back With a guilty, shrinking fear.

Her sisters saw, and they started up, And they said in haste, "Not so! Take back the bread, if there be no more; The crucifix must not go!"

And she took courage, and kissed them both, And smiled, though her eyes were wet; Then looked again at the face beloved, And said, "He will help us yet!"

They rose next day with the early dawn, And their hearts were almost light! The young need little to make them glad, And the day was fair and bright.

And pleasant 't is to behold the sun, Though his rosy-tinted ray Could only shine on the moss-grown tiles Of the roof across the way.

And the air was sweet in the narrow street Where the swallows toss and glide; For a perfume came on the morning breeze From the hills on every side,--

A perfume faint from the woods afar, From blossoming fields of corn; And bells already their chimes began, For this was a sacred morn.

The Carmine church is near at hand, And the sisters thither hied; 'T was there they had knelt in happy days By the dear dead mother's side.

Then home, through the gay and festive street, Till they reached the chamber bare: The time had come for the morning meal, And alas, no bread was there!

The elder girl on her sisters looked, And her face grew white with pain. Then said the one who was next in age, "Let us ask the Lord again!"

So down they knelt on the red-tiled floor, And the elder bowed her head, And said aloud, while the others joined, The prayer for their daily bread.

And then, with a tempest in her heart That she could no more withstand, With her arm around the younger girl, And the other by the hand,

She pleaded, raising her tearful face To the dying face above, For those she loved in their helpless state With more than a sister's love.

"O blessed Jesus! O Lord divine! Have pity, we wait for Thee! Look down--Thou seest our empty chest, Thou knowest how poor we be!

"Oh, send some bread to my sisters dear, For the cornfields all are Thine! I 'd rather lie in my grave to-day Than to see these children pine!

"Thou knowest, Lord, I have done my best; But my hands have failed at length: A mother's burden is on me laid With only a maiden's strength.

"Come, help me! Look at these orphan girls! Oh, save them from want and woe!--" Her praying ceased, for they heard a sound, A knock at the door below.

They rose, and all to the window went: A beggar was at the door, A poor, pale stranger, with staff in hand, Who had never come before.

The Month of Mary was coming in; And many were on their way To ask for alms in the Virgin's name On that beautiful first of May.

"My little sisters," the beggar said, (And bowed to the maidens three,) "I pray you spare from your table spread A morsel of bread for me!

"I come from far, and I 've far to go; And I 've eaten nought to-day!" The elder wept, but she answered not; And the second turned away.

The younger looked with her innocent eyes In the beggar's pleading face: "And if we could, we would give you food; But we 're in as hard a case!

"We finished yesterday all we had-- The half of a loaf, no more!-- We just were asking the Lord for bread, When we heard you at the door."

"Go, look in the chest, my little maid; You 'll find there is bread to spare!" "Alas, we have looked so many times, And never a crust is there!"

"Look once again, for the love of Him Whose image I see within: He never has failed to help His own, And He will not now begin."

So only lest it should seem unkind To refuse the small request, The elder girl with a patient smile Went back to the empty chest.

She looked--and down on her knees she fell, With a cry of glad surprise: The others turned, and their breath stood still, They could scarce believe their eyes!

'T was full! And the loaves were piled so high They could close the lid no more. Their tears fell faster for joy that day Than they fell for grief before!

But in the midst of their thankful praise They thought of the starving man: The little one seized the topmost loaf, And back to the window ran.

She looked, she called him--he was not there! They sought him, but all in vain: He passed away from their sight that day, And he came no more again.

So ends the story; but ever since That crucifix bears the name _La Providenza_; and even now The house has a sacred fame.

And many kneel where the sisters knelt Each year on the first of May; And the floor is all bestrewn with flowers, And leaves of the scented bay.

The humble room is with roses decked. And bright with the candles' glow; And smoke of incense, and sound of psalm, Float over the street below.

A woman aged and silver-haired Once told me, with solemn thrill, How she herself had beheld the chest, Which stands in the chamber still.

I asked her: "Who was that beggarman? An angel, do you suppose? A saint from heaven?" Her face grew grave, And she answered me, "Who knows?"

And then, with voice to a whisper dropped, With an awed, mysterious air, "Some think," she said, "'t was the Lord Himself Who came at the maiden's prayer."

*Angels in the Churchyard*

The story of the "Angels in the Churchyard" was told me by Signore Bortolo Zanchetta of Bassano, who said that he read it in an old book, but he had lost the book, and could not even remember its name.

*Angels in the Churchyard*

A saint there was, long time ago, And all in vain I tried His name to learn, or whence he came, Or how or where he died.

For he from whom the tale I heard Could tell me nothing more Save only that within him dwelt Of love an endless store.

And in the churchyard once he passed A summer night in prayer, For pity of the nameless dead Who lie forgotten there.

He knew not when the sun went down, So earnestly he prayed! He knew not when the twilight glow Was lost in deepening shade.

And when the fair, round moon arose Behind the wooded hill, She looked across the churchyard wall, And found him praying still.

But when the night was far along, And when the moon was high, When all the village lights were out, And closed was every eye,--

When low above the sleeping dead The folded daisies slept, And he alone his patient watch Until the morning kept,--

Came angels through the churchyard gate, But in no heavenly guise; So unadorned, he little thought They came from Paradise!

The moon lit up their robes of white; No other glory shone. He watched them, as they paused before One sunken, moss-grown stone,

And thrice their silver censers swung, As at some saintly shrine, But never incense burnt on earth Had perfume so divine.

Between the graves they glided on: Toward a cross they turned-- A wooden cross that bore no name-- And there the incense burned.

A fading garland on it hung, Of wild flowers simply twined; Whoever lay in that poor grave Had left some love behind.

But next they sought a dreary place Against the northern wall; He could not see if mound were there, The nettles grew so tall!

And on to others, three or four, Their noiseless steps they bent: Where'er they stayed, the incense rose; Then, as they came, they went.

But often to that churchyard green Did he at night repair; And ever, when the hour returned, The angels all were there.

He thought them only white-robed priests; And much he wondered why Each night at certain graves they stayed, While others they passed by.

Till, after waiting, wondering long, One night he forward pressed, And spoke with one who walked apart, A step behind the rest.

'T was starlight now; the moon had waned: He hardly saw the face Of him he talked with; but he felt Great peace was in the place.

"Of God's own saints," the angel said, "A few lie buried here; And He so loves them that to Him Their very dust is dear!

"So, while their souls with perfect peace Are in His presence blest, He will not that these humble graves Should all unhonoured rest.

"Each night from heaven He sends us down. Where'er His flowers are sown-- These bodies that shall one day rise, All glorious like His own!"

The saint was silent, for his lips Could find no word to say: He stood entranced, and like to one Whose soul is far away.

At length he roused; the stars were dim, The night had half withdrawn: A light was in the eastern sky, The clear pale light of dawn.

Then came a freshening in the air, A twitter in the trees, A ripple in the dewy grass That felt the early breeze;

And sounded from the tower above The sweet-toned, ancient bell; While bright and busy over all The summer morning fell.

The daisies opened; happy birds Sang in the sunshine free. The dead alone are sleeping now; Their morning is to be.

*The Origin of the Indian Corn*

This story was told me by the Contessa Vittoria Percoto Antonini of Palmanuova, who said that she heard it in her youth at a _Fila_, which is a sort of social gathering held in the winter evenings by the _contadini_ in that part of the country.

The winter is cold, and these _contadini_, who are very poor and can ill afford the wood for a fire, meet in the cattle-shed, where the breath of cows and oxen warms the air a little.

They often say, "It is the way that the Gesu Bambino was warmed!" A lantern hangs from one of the beams overhead, and by its dim light the women spin or knit. All talk together, and (as the Contessa Vittoria expresses it) "the boys make themselves agreeable to the girls, very much as though it were a party of ladies and gentlemen."

And from time to time the elder people entertain the company with stories, of which this is a pretty fair specimen.

*The Origin of the Indian Corn*

*A Legend of Friuli*

In the far Italian border land, With its rolling hills and mountains grand, And the Alps of Carnia rising near, Where the snow lies more than half the year; With crags where the clinging fir-trees grow Above the chestnuts and vines below, From the weary, changing world remote,-- There age on age doth a legend float. The young have learnt it from aged men; It never was written yet with pen. It seems at first, when they tell it o'er, A childish fancy, and nothing more; And bearing the impress, deep indeed, Of the hard and struggling lives they lead: A thing to smile at, and then forget, Scarce worthy a passing thought--and yet The simple tale may a lesson teach If only one can its meaning reach! Like one of their living, hill-side springs, That shows the image of common things; So he who looks on its surface sees The bending flowers, the arching trees, The sun, the shadow, the rocks, the sky, The busy birds that go flitting by, While deep below is the endless wealth Of water, given for life and health.

In homely form is the lesson taught; But worthy still of a reverent thought. So listen, think; if you have a mind To seek, and the hidden treasure find: For Truth, most precious and fair, doth dwell In the crystal depth of this mountain well.

And this is the story, often told In the winter evenings long and cold; In the low-roofed, dimly lighted shed, Where the breath of oxen serves instead Of a blazing hearth to warm the place: A smile of peace is on every face, And hearts are light, and they often say, "Our Lord was warmed in the self-same way, That night when He on the earth was born!" And the shed no longer seems forlorn, For it makes them feel Him near at hand: And they the better can understand How by His pity and timely aid The beautiful Indian corn was made.

'T was in the days when He dwelt below, Before 't was given to man to know Or who He was or from whence He came; And the world had hardly heard His name! He journeyed over the country roads, He taught the poor, and He eased their loads. He had no dwelling wherein to rest With the one or two who loved Him best, And once in seeking a friendly door They came to a farmer's threshing-floor. The hot July had but just begun; The road lay white in the blinding sun; The air was heavy with odours sweet; The sky was pale, as if faint with heat. Two weary men and two women pale Were threshing, each with a heavy flail,-- A mile away you could hear the sound In measured cadence along the ground. Then, moved with pity at such a sight, It pleased Him to make their burden light. At first He prayed them to pause and rest; They only smiled at the strange request, And laboured on till He spoke again: "Fear not, Myself I will thresh the grain!"

At sound of His holy voice, they knew That what He said He would surely do! He bade them bring Him a burning brand, And, though they little could understand, The brand was brought, and they saw Him bend, And touch the corn with the lighted end. Then swiftly, as by a tempest blown, The straw to the farther side was thrown; The wheaten kernels, all clear and bright, Lay piled on high--'t was a pleasant sight! Another and smaller heap contained The chaff, and whatever else remained. 'T was threshed and winnowed, and all in one; The work of days in a moment done! The happy threshers, with one accord, Gave thanks and praise to the blessed Lord; And grateful tears at His feet were shed.

Meanwhile the news through the village spread; For more than one had been near, and seen The miracle of the wheat made clean. From field and garden and cottage door, The people flocked to the threshing-floor. Then came a time of such joy supreme As never had been in thought or dream. For when they looked on the clean-threshed wheat, And heard the threshers their tale repeat, And knew that He had this wonder done, They knelt and worshipped Him, every one! Oh, think how happy they were and blest, Who might awhile in His presence rest! Think what it would be for you or me That voice to hear and that face to see! The children run to Him where He stands, And cling with their little sunbrowned hands To His garment; and the parents feel Their burden lightened while yet they kneel. "Thank God, who spared us!" the aged say, "To look on Thy blessed face to-day!" The sick are healed, and the weak made strong, And hearts consoled that had suffered long: A sound of gladness, of praise and prayer, Floats far away on the summer air.

Amid such transports of young and old, How was it that one could still be cold? A certain widow whom all confessed To be the bravest, perhaps the best, Among the women the place contained-- Why was it that she aloof remained?

Handsome and stately, and strong of arm To guard her fatherless babes from harm, With five little hungry mouths to fill; For them she laboured with might and will! But, proud of spirit, she could not bear That other hearts should her burden share. Of soul too high for an evil deed, She scorned the others, but helped their need. In wit and wisdom the rest excelled, And yet their kindness too oft repelled; Accepted nothing, though free to give, And almost rather had ceased to live Than share the loaf from a neighbour's shelf. Yes, proud of her very pride itself!

She nursed it, cherished it, thought it grand, To guide unaided her house and land, And thanked the Lord, when she knelt to pray, That never one in the place could say, "I help the widow!" And now she stood Apart from the kneeling multitude, And half impatient and half amused, She smiled at the simple words they used, Of praise and wonder, and thought how she Could never so weak and childish be!

For her 't was a proud and happy day, For rest and plenty before her lay: Herself had sown and herself had reaped; And now the beautiful sheaves lay heaped, Not far away, by her open door; Her heart rejoiced in the ample store! A neighbour saw her, and called her name: "Come near! perhaps He will do the same For thee, and thy summer's work complete; I know that thou hast not threshed thy wheat!"

She tossed her head with a smile of pride: "I never yet, since my husband died, Asked help or favour of any one! Besides, I saw how the thing was done. And I can do it as well as He; He need not turn from His way for me!" She looked on the awed, adoring crowd, In scorn a moment; then laughed aloud, To see the horror among them spread, At sound of the evil words she said.

Our Lord's disciples, though saints they were, Had no good wishes that day for her! Indeed, their patience was greatly tried To see Him slighted and thrust aside. One even whispered, "Hast Thou not heard?" But He said never an angry word! One look of pity He on her cast, Then turned, and forth from the village passed, Along the lane where the grass was brown, And birds were plucking the thistle-down, Till under the olives' silver screen He turned aside, and no more was seen.

And now the widow of heart so proud Would show to the grave, indignant crowd Her greater wisdom; with this intent She calmly in to her fireside went; Some coals she brought in an iron pan-- "If one can do it, another can!" She said; and then with a careless smile She touched the coals to her golden pile.

A flash, a crackle, a blinding blaze Of flame, that struggles, and soars, and sways, And sinks a moment, and soars again-- That was the end of the widow's grain! A few short moments, and nought remained Of all that her loving toil had gained But blackened tinder, and embers red, And the sullen smoke-cloud overhead!

Her friends and neighbours, I fear, meanwhile Were far less minded to weep than smile; And hardly one was with pity moved, For the woman was not greatly loved. And all were angry, as well as grieved, To think of the slight our Lord received, After his wonderful goodness shown, And when He had made their cares His own!

The boys were ready to dance and shout, At seeing the red sparks blown about; The maidens whispered and laughed aside; Their parents talked on the sin of pride. To help or comfort her, no one planned, Except the poorest of all the band; An aged woman, who near her came, And drew her back from the scorching flame. "Poor soul!" she said, "thou hast children five! And I have none in the world alive. Keep up thy heart! I am well content To share with thee what the Lord has sent. I just have gathered my harvest store, And when 't is gone, He will send us more!"

In vain they spoke to her, ill or good; She neither listened nor understood. She minded not if they frowned or smiled; Her face was white, and her eyes were wild, As, lost in horror, she stood and gazed To see the corn by her labour raised, Their store of food for the coming year, Consume before her and disappear! Then came the cry of a little child, From sleep awakened, in terror wild. That cry brought life to her fainting heart; She turned around with a sudden start, And said, in a husky voice and low, "Which way did that Blessed Stranger go?"