FABLE AND FOLKLORE 113 



mute, formerly had a voice. In Sweden, where the red 

 crossbill is a familiar winter bird, arose the tradition that 

 its peculiarly crossed beak became twisted by its efforts 

 to pull the nails from Christ's hands and feet: 



Stained with blood and never tiring 

 With its beak it doth not cease, 



From the Cross 't would free the Saviour 

 Its creator's son release. 



And the Saviour speaks in mildness: 



Blest be thou of all the good! 

 Bear as token of this moment 



Marks of blood and holy rood. 



So Longfellow paraphrases Julius Mosen's little German 

 hymn. 



The same loving service has been attributed to the red- 

 browed goldfinch of Europe in a legend current in Great 

 Britain — a story put into verse in The Spectator 

 (London, 19 10) by Pamela Tenant, partly thus: 



Held in his slender beak the cruel thing, 

 Still with his gentle might endeavoring 

 But to release it. 



Then as he strove, spake One— a dying space- 

 Take, for thy pity, as a sign of grace, 

 'Semblance of this, my blood, upon thy face 

 'A living glory.' 



The complaining love-note of the wood-pigeon has, in 

 the northwestern part of Europe, become the subject of a 

 well-adapted and pathetic myth, as Watters 57 denomi- 

 nates it in his entertaining Birds of Ireland. "It is said 

 that a dove perched in the neighborhood of the holy cross 

 when the Redeemer was expiring, and, wailing its notes 

 of sorrow, kept repeating the words Tvyrie! Kyrie!' 



