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The Child in the Snow; Legend of St. Veronica; The Tyrolese Boys; The Idiot of Folgoet · Legends of the Saints

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  Section eighteen of Legends of the Saints by Mary Seymour. This LibriVox recording is
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  in the public domain. Read by Marie Christian. Legend of the Child in
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  the Snow. There once was a very holy and devout monk who had a
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  tender love for the Child Jesus. One winter's day he had to take a
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  long journey on horseback, and as he passed by a dreary, desolate road,
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  he saw there in the snow a child crying bitterly. He stopped his
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  horse, for a great compassion filled his heart, and, thinking perhaps the
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  boy had lost his mother, he asked the cause of his tears. But
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  the little child did not answer, and burst out into such deep sobs that
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  the monk was more than ever sorry for him, and with gentle words,
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  entreated him to tell the cause of such great distress. At length, the
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  little one spoke and said he could not help weeping, for he was perishing
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  from cold and hunger, and there was no one, no one in all
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  the wide world to take care of him. The monk, on hearing this,
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  at once took up the boy in his arms, kissing and comforting him,
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  trying to warm the cold limbs in his close embrace. Then he turned
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  to remount his horse, that he might carry his burden to the shelter of
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  some hospice. But in that instant the lovely child had slipped from his arms
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  and vanished. Then the good monk understood that the little one had been the
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  most holy child Jesus, and he was sad at so great a loss,
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  although his heart turned with thanksgiving to his divine Lord for the favor he had
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  been pleased to grant him in return for his constant love. End of Legend
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  of the Child in the Snow Legend of Saint Veronica. The little Veronica,
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  from an early age loved Jesus with her whole heart, and in his honor,
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  she had erected a small altar in her room, which she adorned with
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  the best flowers she could obtain. One year, at the approach of Christmas,
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  she prepared her oratory, but there were no flowers ready, and the
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  poor child cried, Ah, how cruel it is that December should refuse me
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  the blossoms I want for my Lord. I have but dry straw to strew
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  around his cradle. And that is not enough, O, my God.
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  With thee it is ever springtime Thou, whose power to spring forth all things,
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  canst give me flowers when I need them. Then Veronica ran hastily to
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  the garden, which was all covered with snow. And she fell upon her
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  knees, and with streaming eyes cried, Jesus, whom I love so much,
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  give me flowers. No blossom pressed upwards through the frozen snow. But
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  the Lord appeared himself to the kneeling child. Be comforted. He said,
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  I am the flower of the field. I am the lily of the valley.
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  And then he disappeared. Veronica wept no more, for she had recognized
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  Jesus, flower of the field, lily of the valley. She exclaimed,
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  Ah, I can need no more. So the happy child returned to her
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  little room and knelt before her unadorned altar. My sorrow has flown, she
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  said, amidst the snows of winter, I still possessed Jesus, and in
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  him I have the sweetest flowers and the most beautiful fragrance. End of Legend
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  of Saint Veronica. Legend of the tyro Leese Boys. Two little boys were
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  once keeping watch over their father's cows upon the mountains of Tyrol and towards midday,
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  when the sun was hot and burning, they found that two of the
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  herd had strayed away from the rest. Quickly they started in search of them
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  along the steep, narrow mountain paths, but the cattle were not to be
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  seen, And as the hours passed and their labor continued vain, they began
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  to shed tears of fear and distress. But the thought of the blessed Virgin
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  came to one young heart, and the boy begged his brother to kneel down
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  with him and offer some prayers to their mother in heaven for help and their
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  great trouble. As they fell upon their knees and invoked the name of Mary,
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  a bright light shone all around them, and a lady of a sweet
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  and gracious countenance appeared close by their side, and in gentle tones bade them
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  wipe away their tears and be consoled, for the two cows had gone home
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  to their stalls. Then, gazing pitifully at the weary children, she added,
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  drink and refresh yourselves, my little ones, for the heat is great
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  and you have wandered far. Drink, cried the boys. There is no
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  water here, good mother, else we would gladly take it for we are
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  thirsty and tired. As they spoke, the bright vision disappeared, but in
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  the place where she had stood, a clear, bubbling stream welled up between
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  the rocks, and the little shepherd lads drank and were refreshed. It was
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  time to return homewards with the rest of their herd, so the boys left
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  the spot, which seemed to them now so holy. But as they went
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  they spoke in low and reverent tones of the favor which had been granted them.
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  And though they feared to tell it to their parents and friends, they
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  cherished their secret in their hearts, and never went that way without going to
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  visit the wondrous spring of water, which still continued flowing, saying a prayer
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  there in glory to God and love of his blessed Mother. So fifty years
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  passed, and the little lads had grown old. One was so infirmed that
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  he could never leave his home. The other still watched his herds with the
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  help of a boy who had been deaf and dumb from his birth. The
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  lad had often seen the old herdsman turn aside to visit the miraculous spring and
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  kneel and pray there, and at last, one day he also knelt and
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  raised his heart to God, although he scarce knew why. But when his
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  master drank of the clear water, the poor deaf and dumb boy drank too,
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  and lo, no sooner had it passed his lips than he could speak
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  as well and plainly as any other. This miracle could not remain unknown,
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  and many others followed, and before a year had passed, a chapel dedicated
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  to the Blessed Virgin was raised upon the spot where once the little troubled shepherd
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  boys had knelt and told their grief to that pitiful mother, and received an
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  immediate answer to their prayer. End of Legend of the tyro Leese Boys.
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  Legend of the Idiot of full Goway. In one of the deep forests of
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  Brittany, there dwelt a poor idiot named Solomon, but who was perhaps better
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  known among the people of the villages round about as the foolish man of the
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  wood. God, who had seen fit to deprive this poor creature of the
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  knowledge and understanding which he gives in some measure to nearly all whom he has
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  created, had however, allowed one ray of light to gleam into the darkness
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  of his mind. And that was the love of the blessed Virgin. Night
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  and day amidst the thick growth of trees in the forest, Solomon sung constantly
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  the words Ave Maria. And though he was not wise enough to be able
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  to reason and talk about his devotion to his dear mother, it was evident
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  that he had no thought for any one else, and his heart was truly
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  consecrated, though unconsciously to her honor. The idiot was miserably clad. His
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  feet were bare. He slept upon the earth, resting his head upon some
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  large stone or bit of rock for a pillow, and his only shelter was
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  the branches of the tree under which he made his chief, dwelling close by
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  the stream which flowed through the wood. Each day, poor Solomon went into
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  the town which is on the borders of the wood, to beg his bread,
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  using the only words he knew, the Ave Maria, and Solomon eats
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  bread. Whatever was given him he accepted, thankfully, returning to eat under
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  the shadow of the tree, which was like a little hermitage to him,
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  and moistening his hard crust in water. He would exclaim again and again Ave
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  Maria. In the depth of winter, the idiot would plunge up to his
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  chin in the half frozen stream, singing some Breton rhyme in honor of Mary.
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  And when he became almost numbed from the cold, he regained some slight
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  warmth by swinging to and fro as he held by one of the branches of
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  the tree, saying, Ave Maria. With these strange ways, it was
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  not surprising that the people called him a fool or mad little, thinking how
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  dear he was to Mary, whom he loved so devotedly. Once he encountered
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  a band of soldiers who shouted, who goes there, upon which he replied,
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  I am only the servant of the lady Mary. Long live Mary,
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  And the troop then burst into loud laughter and let him pass by. Thus,
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  for thirty nine or forty years Solomon passed his life, and in all
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  that time he had never done an unkindness to any one. At last he
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  became ill, but he sought no better shelter. And the people of that
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  part say that there the Queen of Heaven, with a band of brighton angels,
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  visited him and consoled him with words of loving sweetness. Thus the poor
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  simple creature died murmuring with his last breath, Ave Maria. He was found
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  lifeless, not far from the stream from which he had drunk so often,
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  and his face, which had been so unpleasing and common to the eyes of
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  men, shone in death with a wondrous beauty, that beauty which was a
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  reflection from the purity of the soul which had but just been set free.
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  The poor man was buried near by, and the few who had ever known
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  or noticed him soon forgot him. But it was not God's will that his
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  humble servant should remain unremembered and unknown. And soon a lily which no hand
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  had planted, was seen growing upon the spot where Solomon's remains had been laid.
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  Those who first observed the flower were attracted by its unusual fragrance to draw
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  nearer, and thus it was they found upon each pure white petal the words
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  ave Maria, written in letters of gold. The news of this miraculous lily
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  soon spread throughout Brittany, and multitudes thronged to the spot that they might see
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  its whiteness, and inhale its delicious fragrance, and above all gaze upon the
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  golden lettered Ave Maria. Then the poor idiot was remembered, and the people
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  who had known him told to visitors the story of his life and of his
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  one constant song to his blessed mother. The ecclesiastics and the nobles of the
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  land desired to understand more about this strange man who had lived and died in
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  the old Breton Forest, and accordingly his remains were sought for. Upon opening
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  the grave, it was found that the fair, sweet lily sprang from the
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  mouth of the poor, despised idiot, that mouth from which no evil,
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  no unkindly word had ever dropped, while its root was within his breast,
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  which had contained no other thought than that of Mary, the Pure and stainless.
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  Since that time a church dedicated to our lady is built upon the spot
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  as a memorial of the Idiot of full Goway, who, though so little
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  known or loved on earth, rejoices now among the pure of heart who see
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  God's face forever. End of Legend of the Idiot of full Goway, end
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  of Section eighteen. End of Legends of the Saints by Mary Seymour