If I should now relate

The piteous lamentation,

Which for their son these parents made,

My little friends, I am afraid
You'd weep at the relation.

But Pierre in Santiago still His constant faith profess'd; When to the gallows he was led, "'T was a short way to Heaven," he said, "Though not the pleasantest."

And from their pilgrimage he charged His parents not to cease,

Saying that unless they promised this, He could not be hang'd in peace.

They promised it with heavy hearts; Pierre then, therewith content, Was hang'd: and they upon their way To Compostella went.

THE LEGEND.

PART II.

FOUR weeks they travell'd painfully,
They paid their vows, and then
To La Calzada's fatal town
Did they come back again.

The Mother would not be withheld,
But go she must to see

Where her poor Pierre was left to hang
Upon the gallows tree.

Oh tale most marvellous to hear,
Most marvellous to tell!

Eight weeks had he been hanging there,
And yet was alive and well!

'Mother," said he, "I am glad you 're return'd, It is time I should now be released: Though I cannot complain that I'm tired, And my neck does not ache in the least.

"The Sun has not scorch'd me by day, The Moon has not chill'd me by night; And the winds have but help'd me to swing, As if in a dream of delight.

"Go you to the Alcayde,
That hasty Judge unjust,
Tell him Santiago has saved me,
And take me down he must!"

Now, you must know the Alcayde,
Not thinking himself a great sinner,
Just then at table had sate down,
About to begin his dinner.

His knife was raised to carve,
The dish before him then;
Two roasted fowls were laid therein,
That very morning they had been
A Cock and his faithful Hen.

In came the Mother wild with joy;
"A miracle!" she cried;

But that most hasty Judge unjust
Repell'd her in his pride.

"Think not," quoth he, "to tales like this
That I should give belief!
Santiago never would bestow
His miracles, full well I know,
On a Frenchman and a thief."

And pointing to the Fowls, o'er which
He held his ready knife,

"As easily might I believe

These birds should come to life!"

The good Saint would not let him thus
The Mother's true tale withstand ;
So up rose the Fowls in the dish,
And down dropt the knife from his hand.

The Cock would have crow'd if he could;
To cackle the Hen had a wish;

And they both slipt about in the gravy
Before they got out of the dish.

And when each would have open'd its eyes,
For the purpose of looking about them,

They saw they had no eyes to open,
And that there was no seeing without them.

All this was to them a great wonder ; They stagger'd and reel'd on the table; And either to guess where they were, Or what was their plight, or how they came there, Alas! they were wholly unable:

Because, you must know, that that morning,
A thing which they thought very hard,

The Cook had cut off their heads,

And thrown them away in the yard.

The Hen would have prank'd up her feathers, But plucking had sadly deform'd her;

And for want of them she would have shiver'd with

cold,

If the roasting she had had not warm'd her.

And the Cock felt exceedingly queer;

He thought it a very odd thing

That his head and his voice were he did not know where,

And his gizzard tuck'd under his wing.

The gizzard got into its place,
But how Santiago knows best :
And so, by the help of the Saint,
Did the liver and all the rest.

The heads saw their way to the bodies,
In they came from the yard without check,
And each took its own proper station,
To the very great joy of the neck.

And în flew the feathers, like snow in a shower, For they all became white on the way;

And the Cock and the Hen in a trice were refledged, And then who so happy as they !