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ST. NICHOLAS

Vol. XXXII.

February, 1905

No. 4

Barry

By Mary Rowles Jarvis.

Away on the mountain’s shoulder, Where the storm-wind’s icy breath Blows keen over drift and boulder, A blast from the hills of death,

The lights of the Hospice glistened Far over the wastes of snow, And the monks, at their vespers, listened To the moan of the storm below.

For the snow-cloud’s awful curtain Had shrouded the Pass all day, And the pathway, at best uncertain, Deep buried in snow-drifts lay.

But safe in the courtyard herded, The dogs with their master stood, Till each broad neck should be girded With cordial and light and food.

Then away! every foe defying, Their noble work to perform, To search for the lost ones lying Asleep in the pitiless storm.

Not one had been known to tarry, Or falter at duty's call, But the king of the dogs was Barry, The bravest dog of them all.

For out of the drifts ensnaring, Where their tottering victim strives,By his deeds of noble daring He had rescued a score of lives.

That day, through the tempest climbing, Two travelers urged their way,The plan of their journey timing By night with the monks to stay.

But the snowflakes traveled faster, And soon in the whirl of the galeEach step threatened new disaster, And courage began to fail.

And one of them fumed in anger And said, as he paused at length,“A curse on this terrible languor! Let us drink to revive our strength:

“’T is well I ’ve a flagon handy.” But his comrade, in sore affright,Cried, “Man, if you taste of brandy, You ’re dead ere the morning light!”