Followers of Saint Francis 



the mildest weather. A pavihon built for pleas- 

 ure is no refuge. When tempests rage, when 

 troubles brew, you had best seek out my people 

 and the girdling safety of their convent walls. 



Only you need not hope to enter unless you 



are possessed of four legs, a creeping belly, or 



a pair of wings. If you were a dinosaur, they 



would give you a God's rest from leaping and 



offer you the porch. If you were leviathan and 



wallowed up the tide-stream, they would shine 



with interest and keep dinner waiting while they 



eased you of your hook. Were you behemoth, 



they would lead you to the marsh, and in its 



ooziness invite you to cool off your sides. Even 



were you Adam's serpent, they would apply cold 



cream and lotion to your head so grievously 



afllicted and erase the bruise of human heel. But 



as man, you wiU not win attention. To gain 



more than a passing notice, you must crawl or 



flutter in. For they are followers of St. Francis, 



that friend of hide and fur and feathers. So are 



the retreats they offer never cots, but nests and 



burrows, crevices and lairs. 



[263] 



