ool, but was addicted to solitary meditation, entered
the guilty conclave. Their course was taken--they threw the fragments of
the bird into his hands, and bolted. St Serf enters, and the crew are
awaiting in guilty exultation the bursting of his wrath. The consecrated
youth, however, fitting the severed parts to each other, signs the
cross, raises his pure hands to heaven, and breathes an appropriate
prayer--when lo! robin lifts his little head, expands his wings, and
hops away to meet his master. In the eucharistic office of St
Kentigern's day, this event, along with the restoration to life of a
meritorious cook, and other miracles, inspired a canticle which, for
long subsequent ages, was exultingly sung by the choristers in the
saint's own cathedral of Glasgow, thus:--

"Garrit ales pernecatus.
Cocus est resuscitatus.
Salit vervex trucidatus
Amputato capite."

A bird proper, on the shield argent of the city of Glasgow, has been
identified with the resuscitated pet of the patron saint. The tree on
which it is there perched is a commemoration of another of the saint's
miracles. In a time of frost and snow his enemies had extinguished his
fire; but immediately drawing on the miraculous resources ever at the
command of his class on such emergencies, he breathed fire into a frozen
branch from the forest; and it was centuries afterwards attested that
the green branches of that forest made excellent firewood.

Another element in the blazon of the Venice of the west is a fish, laid
across the stem of the tree, "in base," as the heralds say, but not, as
generally depicted, conformable either to their science or that of the
ichthyologist. This fish holds in its mouth something like a dish--in
reality a ring--and thus commemorates a miraculous feat of the same
saint, which has found its way into the romances of the juvenile portion
of the reading public, where it is a standard nuisance. Queen Cadyow,
whose conduct was of such a character that it is wonderful how any
respectable saint could have prevailed on himself to serve her, gives
her bridal ring to a paramour. Her husband lures the rival away to the
bank of the Clyde, to sleep after the fatigues of the chase, and there,
furtively removing the ring, pitches it into the river. The reader knows
the result by instinct. St Kentigern, appealed to, directs the first
salmon that can be caught in the Clyde to be opened, and there, of
course, is the ring in the