Short Fiction Selma Lagerlöf (best book club books of all time .txt) 📖

they must needs place a crown of piercing thorns upon the head of one of them. I see that the thorns have wounded his brow so that the blood flows,” he continued. “And this man is so beautiful, and looks about him with such mild glances that everyone ought to love him. I feel as if an arrow were shooting through my heart, when I see him suffer!”

The little bird began to feel a stronger and stronger pity for the thorn-crowned sufferer. “Oh! if I were only my brother the eagle,” thought he, “I would draw the nails from his hands, and with my strong claws I would drive away all those who torture him!” He saw how the blood trickled down from the brow of the Crucified One, and he could no longer remain quiet in his nest. “Even if I am little and weak, I can still do something for this poor tortured one,” thought the bird. Then he left his nest and flew out into the air, striking wide circles around the Crucified One. He flew around him several times without daring to approach, for he was a shy little bird, who had never dared to go near a human being. But little by little he gained courage, flew close to him, and drew with his little bill a thorn that had become imbedded in the brow of the Crucified One. And as he did this there fell on his breast a drop of blood from the face of the Crucified One;⁠—it spread quickly and floated out and colored all the little fine breast feathers.

Then the Crucified One opened his lips and whispered to the bird: “Because of thy compassion, thou hast won all that thy kind have been striving after, ever since the world was created.”

As soon as the bird had returned to his nest his young ones cried to him: “Thy breast is red! Thy breast feathers are redder than the roses!”

“It is only a drop of blood from the poor man’s forehead,” said the bird; “it will vanish as soon as I bathe in a pool or a clear well.”

But no matter how much the little bird bathed, the red color did not vanish⁠—and when his little young ones grew up, the blood-red color shone also on their breast feathers, just as it shines on every Robin Redbreast’s throat and breast until this very day.

Our Lord and Saint Peter

It happened at the time when our Lord and Saint Peter were newly arrived in Paradise, after having wandered on earth and suffered hardships during many sorrowful years.

One can imagine that the change was a joy to Saint Peter! One can picture to oneself that it was quite another matter to sit upon Paradise Mountain and look out over the world, instead of wandering from door to door, like a beggar. It was another matter to walk about in the beautiful gardens of Paradise, instead of roaming around on earth, not knowing if one would be given houseroom on a stormy night, or if one would be forced to tramp the highway in the chill and darkness.

One can imagine what a joy it must have been to get to the right place at last after such a journey. Saint Peter, to be sure, had not always been certain that all would end well. He couldn’t very well help feeling doubtful and troubled at times, for it had been almost impossible for poor Saint Peter to understand why there was any earthly need for them to have such a hard time of it, if our Lord was lord of all the world.

Now, no yearning could come to torment him any more. That he was glad of this one can well believe.

Now, he could actually laugh at all the misery which he and our Lord had been forced to endure, and at the little that they had been obliged to content themselves with.

Once, when things had turned out so badly for them that Saint Peter thought he couldn’t stand it any longer, our Lord had taken him to a high mountain, and had begun the ascent without telling him what they were there for.

They had wandered past the cities at the foot of the mountain, and the castles higher up. They had gone past the farms and cabins, and had left behind them the last wood-chopper’s cave.

They had come at last to the part where the mountain stood naked, without verdure and trees, and where a hermit had built him a hut, wherein he might shelter needy travelers.

Afterward, they had walked over the snowfields, where the mountain-rats sleep, and come to the piled-up ice masses, which stood on edge and atilt, and where scarcely a chamois could pass.

Up there our Lord had found a little red-breasted bird, that lay frozen to death on the ice, and He had picked up the bullfinch and tucked it in His bosom. And Saint Peter remembered he had wondered if this was to be their dinner.

They had wandered a long while on the slippery ice-blocks, and it had seemed to Saint Peter that he had never been so near perdition; for a deadly cold wind and a deadly dark mist enveloped them, and as far as he could discover, there wasn’t a living thing to be found. And, still, they were only halfway up the mountain.

Then he begged our Lord to let him turn back.

“Not yet,” said our Lord, “for I want to show you something which will give you courage to meet all sorrows.”

For this they had gone on through mist and cold until they had reached an interminably high wall, which prevented them from going farther.

“This wall extends all around the mountain,” said our Lord, “and you can’t step over it at any point. Nor can any living creature see anything of that which lies behind it, for it is here that Paradise begins; and all the way up to the mountain’s summit live the