When on this earth the Master trod, 



Faint, weary and foot sore, 

 He stopped to rest at a cottage small, 



Where the housewife sat at her door. 



The dame was busy making bread, 



She wore a bright red hood; 

 Her only thought was for her work, 



That her loaves be light and good. 



When the Master begged for a piece of bread 



Said she: *'My loaves are small. 

 They will scarcely do till baking day 



So I'll give the least of all." 



Lo! when the cake was on the fire 



It large and larger grew 

 Till she declared — "'Tis quite too big 



To give away to you." 



So she made a smaller cake of dough 



And placed it on to bake; 

 But as before the bread did grow 



And became the larger cake. 



When this she refused, the Lord was wroth, 



And spoke in His justice dire; 

 *'You love me little to grudge me food, 



Go up in your hood of fire !" 



"Up the chimney black, out into the air 



Fly forth. Woodpecker vain. 

 And seek your food 'neath the bark and bole. 



With never a drink till it rain !" 



From that day to this, with soot on wings 



She tappeth the trees for her bread, 

 And is ever athirst as she whistles for rain 



With a warm red mutch on her head 



Tis a native legend of Norway-land 



But its lesson may be world wide ; 

 Not that of charity alone — 



For a deeper truth doth it hide. 



Oft midst the drudgery of life 



The Master doth appear 

 And offers us angelic work, — 



But we hold- the loaves too dear. 



Belle Paxson Drury. 



48 



