watched, he cherished, yea he talked to it, As though it had a soul.  God gave to him Two daughters, he was wont to say—­one mute, And one who spake, the oak tree and myself.  A child, scarce older than my Bernard now, I nestled to the quaint, kind hermit’s heart, And grew to girlhood with my hand in his.  I loved to prank his wretched cell with flowers.  Twisting bright weeds around his crucifix, Or trailing ivy wreaths about his door.  One winter came when half my father’s vines Were killed with frost; the valley was as white As yonder boldest mountain-top; the air Cut like a knife; the brooks were still and stiff; The high drifts choked the hollows of the hills.  When spring approached and swollen brooks ran free.  And in the ponds the blue ice cracked and brake, The hard snows melted and the bladed green Put forth again, then from the mountain-slopes, The avalanches rolled; the streams o’erflowed; The fields were flooded; flocks were swept away, And folk fared o’er the pasture-ground in boats.  Two days and nights the sun and stars seemed drowned, The air was thick with water, and the world Lay ruined under rain and sliding snows.  Then day and night my thoughts were with the saint Whose poor hut clung to yonder treacherous slope:  My dreams, my tears, my prayers were all for him.  Not till the flood subsided, and again A watery sun shone forth, my prayers prevailed Upon my father, and he went with me To seek the holy man.  “Just God!” he cried, And I, with both hands pressed against mine eyes, Burst into sobs.  No hermitage was there:  Naught save one broken, tottering wall remained Beneath the unshaken, firmly-rooted oak.  Then from the branches came a faint, thin voice, “My children, I am saved!” and looking up, We found him clinging with what strength was left Unto the boughs.  We led him home with us, Starving and sick, and chilled through blood and bone.  Our tenderest care was needed to revive The life half spent, and soon we learned the tale Of his salvation.  He had climbed at first Unto his roof, but saw ere long small chance For that frail hut to stand against the storm.  It rocked beneath him as a bark at sea, The hard wind beat upon him, and the rain Drenched him and seemed to scourge him as with flails.  He gave himself to God; composed with prayer His spirit to meet death; when overhead The swaying oak-limbs seemed to beckon him To seek the branches’ shelter and support.  His prayer till death was that the Lord would bless His daughters, and distinguish them above All children of the earth.  For me his suit Hath well prevailed, thank God!  A happy wife, A happy mother, I have naught to ask:  My blessings overflow.

  Raphael.  Thanks for thy tale,
  Most gracious mother.  See thy babe is lulled
  To smiling sleep.