ed to mean Pie. Moreover, you shall be confined for two
days and two nights in the pen where I kept the geese. And porridge
shall be your only food the while. Go, Master Hugh."

So the wicked Steward was punished. But he learned his lesson; and after
a little while he grew to love the birds almost as well as Saint
Werburgh herself.

But she had not yet finished with Grayking. After Master Hugh had gone
she bent over the pitiful little pile of bones which was all that was
left of that unlucky pie. A tear fell upon them from her beautiful eyes;
and kneeling down she touched them with her white fingers, speaking
softly the name of the bird whom she had loved.

[Illustration: SAINT WERBURGH & HER GOOSE]

"Grayking, arise," she said. And hardly had the words left her mouth
when a strange thing happened. The bones stirred, lifted themselves, and
in a moment a glad "Honk!" sounded in the air, and Grayking himself,
black ring and all, stood ruffling his feathers before her. She clasped
him in her arms and kissed him again and again. Then calling the rest of
the flock by her strange power, she showed them their lost leader
restored as good as new.

What a happy flock of geese flew honking away in an even V, with the
handsomest, grayest, plumpest goose in all the world at their head! And
what an exciting story he had to tell his mates! Surely, no other goose
ever lived who could tell how it felt to be made into pie, to be eaten
and to have his bones picked clean by a greedy Steward.

This is how Saint Werburgh made lifelong friendship with a flock of big
gray geese. And I dare say even now in England one of their descendants
may be found with a black ring around his neck, the handsomest, grayest,
plumpest goose in all the world. And when he hears the name of Saint
Werburgh, which has been handed down to him from grandfather to
grandson for twelve hundred years, he will give an especially loud
"Honk!" of praise.

Dear Saint Werburgh! One would almost be willing to make a goose of
himself if so he might see her again, with all her feathered friends
about her.

THE BALLAD OF SAINT ATHRACTA'S STAGS

ATHRACTA was a maiden fair,
A Prince's daughter she;
Down to her feet fell golden hair,
A wondrous sight to see.

And all amid this golden shower,
The sweetest rosebud face
Blossomed like a dew-fed flower
Upon a stem of grace.