We love the man,
We love the band.
We love the brothers of our balsam band.”
Miriamne comprehended the situation in a moment, and all radiant with smiles, bounded to the side of her aged friend, crying: “Father, oh, you’ve a bonny family coming; over fifty youths and maidens; some Jews, some Gentiles. They’ve been comforting the wounded and now have spontaneously formed some sort of friendly guild.”
“That’s praiseworthy so far,” the saintly man replied.
“And don’t blush; when I asked the leader what were their purposes and name, a dozen cried out at once; ‘We’re Father Adolphus’s angels of mercy!’”
“They could easily have found a better title, but youth in its frank celerity interprets human need. We all must have a pattern or hero. That’s the reason there are pagans; not finding the true God, some invent one. Anyway, God blesses the merciful.”
“Oh, these angels are splendid; so earnest; so happy; so every thing good! They all wear balsam-twig crowns, and are singing improvised ditties about charity and humanity, and such like.”
“Praised be God if they mean them, daughter.”