The Hidden Servants and Other Very Old Stories

by Francesca Alexander

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 Gesù 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 agèd 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 blessèd 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 agèd say,

"To look on Thy blessèd 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 agèd 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 Blessèd Stranger go?"

A storm of voices around her rose;

The woman's purpose they all oppose.

"Which way?" they angrily say; "but how?

Wilt thou have courage to seek him now?

And after thy shameful words to-day,

Is He to stop for thee on His way?

Is He to come when He hears thy call?

But, woman, hast thou no shame at all?"

"Nay, go not near Him!" another said:

"That man has power to strike thee dead,

And thou hast angered Him! Let Him go—

Thy pride has ruined thee; be it so!"

Though none to help her a hand would lend,

That gray-haired woman was still her friend;

She could not speak, for her voice was drowned

In such a tumult of angry sound.

She only made with her wrinkled hand

A sign the widow could understand,

And quick as thought, and before they knew,

Away on her wild pursuit she flew.

Our Blessèd Lord, with His followers few,

Had journeyed on for a mile or two,

When, on the brow of a rocky hill,

The others noticed that He stood still

And looked behind Him; they did the same.

A woman running toward them came,

Running and stumbling, and falling oft,

And throwing wildly her arms aloft,

As if entreating them still to stay

Till she could finish the toilsome way!

They looked; and pity their souls possessed

At first in seeing her thus distressed;

But when they knew her, their hearts grew hard,

Nor would they longer her prayers regard.

"Good Lord, that woman it is," they say,

"Who scorned and slighted Thee so to-day.

She knows her folly, perhaps, too late;

For her, most surely, we should not wait!"

"She needs me now!" was His sole reply;

And still He waited—they wondered why!

Down in the dust at His feet she fell:

Her doleful story she could not tell,

For speech had failed, and she vainly tried:

But, stretching her helpless hands, she cried

(With lips that hardly the words could form,

They trembled so with the inward storm),

"Good Lord, have patience, and pity take

On me, for the innocent children's sake!"

And then from her eyes began to pour

A flood of tears, and she said no more.

She dropped her head on her heaving breast;

But He in His wisdom knew the rest.

And when He looked on her, bowed and crushed,

Her pride all broken, her boasting hushed,

"Take heart!" He said: "I will give thee more

And better grain than thou hadst before."

The day was drawing toward a close,

The sky was clear in its deep repose;

The sun, just sinking away from sight,

Had touched with a solemn crimson light

The smoky column that, dark and thin,

Still rose where the widow's sheaves had been.

The neighbours lingered, or came and went

To look, and talk of the day's event.

And, smiling grimly the wreck to view,

Some said: "The widow has had her due!"

But more of them shook their heads and sighed,

To think of the bitter fruits of pride.

And one old woman looked down the lane,

And wished the widow would come again!

The five poor little ones sat forlorn,

Beside the blackened and wasted corn;

And ate the bread that the neighbours brought:

For them, at least, there was pitying thought.

No sin of theirs, if the corn was burned!

And then it was that the Lord returned.

Returned, as ever, to save and bless!

And while the people around Him press,

The widow kneels and the children weep,

He lays His hand on the smouldering heap.

His touch has the evil work undone;

And in the light of the setting sun

The corn returned where the ashes lay;

But not as it was at noon that day.

To twice their size had the kernels grown,

And each with a burning lustre shone.

For, since that grain through the fire has passed,

'T will bear its colour until the last!

A few, in seeing the store increased

Of her who seemed to deserve it least,

Began to murmur; and yet, maybe,

Themselves were more in the wrong than she!

With all her folly, with all her sin—

For all her ignorant pride had been

Far more, alas, than her reason strong,—

She never did Him that grievous wrong

Of thinking He could refuse the prayer

Of one who sought Him in her despair;

Or that her sin, were it twice as great,

Could close His heart to her woful state;

Or lie so heavily on her soul

But what His love could outweigh the whole!

But most rejoiced in the happy sight

Of evil conquered and wrong made right.

And so from ruin and wreck was born

The beautiful, flame-hued Indian corn!

The Eldest Daughter of the King