dinner--not to order it at a shop, but to look for it in the woods
and waters. You are ready to do your best with rod or gun. You
will use all the skill you have as hunter or fisherman. But what
you shall find, and whether you shall subsist on bacon and biscuit,
or feast on trout and partridges, is, after all, a matter of luck.

I profess that it appears to me not only pleasant, but also
salutary, to be in this condition. It brings us home to the plain
realities of life; it teaches us that a man ought to work before he
eats; it reminds us that, after he has done all he can, he must
still rely upon a mysterious bounty for his daily bread. It says to
us, in homely and familiar words, that life was meant to be
uncertain, that no man can tell what a day will bring forth, and
that it is the part of wisdom to be prepared for disappointments and
grateful for all kinds of small mercies.

There is a story in that fragrant book, THE LITTLE FLOWERS OF ST.
FRANCIS, which I wish to transcribe here, without tying a moral to
it, lest any one should accuse me of preaching.


"Hence [says the quaint old chronicler], having assigned to his
companions the other parts of the world, St. Francis, taking Brother
Maximus as his comrade, set forth toward the province of France.
And coming one day to a certain town, and being very hungry, they
begged their bread as they went, according to the rule of their
order, for the love of God. And St. Francis went through one
quarter of the town, and Brother Maximus through another. But
forasmuch as St. Francis was a man mean and low of stature, and
hence was reputed a vile beggar by such as knew him not, he only