The Family Circle

New Zealand Tablet, 29 June 1916, Page 53

The Family Circle

A GENTLEMAN. I knew him for a gentleman By signs that never fail; His coat was rough and rather worn, His cheeks were thin and pale A lad who had his way to make, With little time for play— I knew him for a gentleman By certain signs to-day. He met his mother on the street; Off came his little cap. My door was shut; he waited there Until I heard his rap. He took the bundle from my hand, And when I dropped my pen, He sprang to pick it up for me, This gentleman of ten. He does not push and crowd along, His voice is gently pitched; He does not fling his books about As if he were bewitched. He stands aside to let you pass, He always shuts the door, He runs on errands willingly To forge and mill and store. He thinks of you before himself, He serves you if he can, For in whatever company The manners make the man. At ten or forty 'tis the same, The manner tells the tale, And I discern the gentleman "By signs that never fail. —Exchange. THE ANGELS' VICTORY. The following is a legend of long ago, which is told and retold at the proper season to the children of Spinalunga, a little town in northern Italy. It was autumn of the year, and the children laughed in the sunshine, and even the older folks were joyful the harvest had been good and they had no dread of the approaching winter, for their barns were filled, and even the bins were overflowing with chestnuts and rosy-cheeked apples for the little ones. Everyone was gay but the Syndic, a wise man who ruled the town. . He was a morose old fellow, and the laughter of the children in the cathedral square disturbed him and put to flight his wise thoughts for the city's good. But alas and alack! the joy of the little town was suddenly changed to sorrow, for the city was besieged by the free-lances from Pisa. The townspeople, men and women, defied the eight hundred horsemen and two thousand men-at-arms encamped at their gates, and bravely defended the walls. Then the captain of the free-lances rode with a white flag into the town, and the terms on which the captain offered peace were singular even for those days. He asked only a promise that in the days to come, Spinalunga would never join the near-by cities against the town of Pisa, and as a pledge of the promise he asked that twenty of the children of the city be sent as hostages to Pisa. With anger the Syndic refused to parley on such terms, and had the captain not come under the white flag of truce the story would be at an end, for the Syndic really loved the children after all. Wearily the siege wore on. The free-lances played dice at the walled gates of the city, and mockingly called out that the inhabitants would be caught a* rats in a hole. Inside the men knew they could not withstand the enemy much longer, for even well filled bins have a limit. Then

Father Agnola, who prayed in the cathedral night and day, sougnt the Syndic and counselled him to accept the strange terms of peace offered by the captain, for he added with a smile, more of heaven than of earth: ' God and His angels have the children in their keeping.' All the town revered the wisdom of Father Agngla, and at set of sun that day the council chose the twenty children to be sent to Pisa while the mothers and fathers wept. At dawn Father Agnola gave each one his blessing, the cathedral bells rang out, and the heavy gates were flung open, and the children trooped out merrily, laughing and singing as they followed Father Agnola, who led the way holding a cross above his head. The women wept behind the walls. Father Agnola would have rebuked them, had he seen them, for their lack of trust in God and His angels. But even as the townsfolk watched the happy troop, those whose eyes were not too dim with tears saw a strange sight which dazzled them. In the golden October sunlight, behind each child, they saw a white-winged angel with a fiery spearand as the singing children advanced towards the free-lances, a wild cry of panic arose from the camp. The horsemen fled in wild confusion—trampling the men-at-arms under their horses' feet, and leaving the wounded and dying in the fields—rushed precipitately down the ravine in confusion. And the children, led by Father Agnola, sang a song of thanksgiving, in which the whole town joined, and the song of the mothers was louder than all the rest, and held too a note of regret for their want of trust. And ever since then the children of Spinalunga play on the piazza of the great cathedral, and when men would chide them for their noise, some wise bystander relates this tale and reminds those who forget that God's angels are with the children now as on that October morning, and for the sake of their angels they play undisturbed. Exchange. IN QUEST QF PREY. In the hunting counties in England, where the fox is preserved, Reynard may be trusted to replenish his larder even in snowy weather. Indeed, very often he finds greater ease of approach and capture when snow is on the ground than when all the woods are green, and at any rate the snow, by showing his footmarks, enables his series of visits to be identified by the naturalist who is patient enough to do it. A keen observer says: ' Once we followed the tracks of fox for a long distance from a large earth on the downs. He had begun by visiting a farm near, going round all the ricks, and then close to the house. Apparently he had been frightened, for he had gone off at a gallop. Then after keeping along a high, steep bank where there was a chance of finding a lark roosting in the rough grass at the edge, he had diverged to examine a patch of dead nettles which had sprung up round a weed-heap. Next he had gone off for half a mile in a straight line to a barn, and there, after examining every bush and straw-rick, he had caught a rat or a mouse, and then gone off into the vale. Not far off was his return track. He had gone a short distance on the track of a hare, but apparently had found a good supper before then, for in a few yards he had abandoned the trail and gone straight back to the earth. The same day we found traces of a tragedy in rabbit-life; the footmarks of several bunnies just outside a thick brake, the traces of a fox creeping cautiously up the hedgerow between them and their earths, and the fox's rush from the bushes, ending in a broad mark in the snow, where a rabbit had been seized, leaving only a few bits of grey hair scattered about as memorials for his family. Walking along the road through the flat meadows one snowy night, we were startled by the noise of a covey of partridges rising and cackling at the other side of the herge. A fox had sprung right among the covey, but apparently missed his mark, as the next moment he crossed the road in front of us.' - ~