nd men." His courage and
personal magnetism won the Mohammedan's sympathy but not his soul.
Although Francis courted martyrdom, and offered to walk through fire to
prove the truth of his message, the Oriental took it all too
good-naturedly to put him to the test, and dismissed him with kindness.

Francis was a great lover of birds. The swallows he called his sisters.
A bird in the cage excited his deepest sympathy. It is said he sometimes
preached to the feathered songsters. Longfellow has cast one of these
homilies into poetic form:

"O brother birds, St. Francis said,
Ye come to me and ask for bread,
But not with bread alone to-day
Shall ye be fed and sent away.

* * * * *

Oh, doubly are ye bound to praise
The great Creator in your lays;
He giveth you your plumes of down,
Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown.

He giveth you your wings to fly
And breathe a purer air on high,
And careth for you everywhere,
Who for yourselves so little care."

Like all ascetics, Francis was tempted in visions. One cold night he
fancied he was in a home of his own, with his wife and children around
him. Rushing out of his cell he heaped up seven hills of snow to
represent a wife, four sons and daughters, and two servants. "Make
haste," he cried, "provide clothing for them lest they perish with the
cold," and falling upon the imaginary group, he dispelled the vision of
domestic bliss in the cold embrace of the winter's snow. Mrs. Oliphant
points out the fact that, unlike most of the hermits and monks, Francis
dreams not of dancing girls, but of the pure love of a wife and the
modest joys of a home and children. She beautifully says: "Had he, for
one sweet, miserable moment, gone back to some old imagination and seen
the unborn faces shine beside the never-lighted fire? But Francis does
not say a word of any such trial going on in his heart. He dissipates
the dream by the chill touch of the snow, by still nature hushing the
fiery thoughts, by sudden action, so violent as to stir the blood in his
veins; and then the curtain of prayer and silence falls over him, and
the convent walls close black around."

The experience of the saint on Mount Alverno deserves special
consideration, not merely on account of its singularity, but also
because it affords a striking illustration of the difficulties one
encounters in trying to get at the truth