The Sickle Moon

When of the crescent moon aware

Hung silver in the sky,

"See, Saint Nothburga's sickle there!"

The Tyrol children cry.

It is a quaint and pretty tale

Six hundred summers old,

When in the green Tyrolean vale,

The peasant folk is told.

The town of Eben nestled here

Is little known to fame,

Save as the legends make it dear,

In Saint Nothburga's name.

For in this quiet country place,

Where a white church spire reared,

Nothburga dwelt, a maid of grace

Who loved the Lord and feared.

She was a serving little lass,

Bound to a farmer stern,

Who to and fro all day must pass

Her coarse black bread to earn.

She spun and knit the fleecy wool,

She bleached the linen white,

She drew the water-buckets full,

And milked the herd at night.

And more than this, when harvest‑tide

Turned golden all the plain,

She took her sickle, curving wide,

And reaped the ripened grain.

All people yielded to the charm

Of this meek-serving maid,

Save the stern master of the farm,

Of whom all stood afraid.

For he was hard to humble folk,

And cruel to the poor,

A godless man, who evil spoke,

A miser of his store.

Now it was on a Saturday

Near to the Sabbath time,

Which in those ages far away

Began at sunset‑chime.

Nothburga in the harvest gold

Was reaping busily,

Although the day was grown so old

That dimly could she see.

Close by her cruel master stood,

And fearsome was his eye;

He glowered at the maiden good,

He glowered at the sky.

For many rows lacked reaping, yet

The dark was falling fast,

And soon the round sun would be set

And working time be past.

"Cling—clang!" The sunset‑chime pealed out,

And Sunday had begun;

Nothburga sighed and turned about——

The reaping was not done.

She laid her curving sickle by,

And said her evening hymn

Wide-gazing on the starless sky,

Where all was dark and dim.

But hark! A hasty summons came

To drown her whispered words,

An angry voice called out her name,

And scared the nestling birds.

"What ho, Nothburga, lazy one!

Bend to your task again,

And do not think the day is done

Till you have reaped this grain."

"But master," spoke Nothburga low,

"It's the Sabbath time;

We must keep holy hours now,

After the sunset-chime."

And then in rage the master cried:

"The day belongs to me!

I'm lord of all the country side,

And hold the time in fee!

"No Sunday-thought shall spoil the gain

That comes a hundred fold

From reaping of my golden grain,

Which shall be turned to gold."

"Nay, Master, give me gracious leave

The Lord's will I must keep;

Upon the holy Sabbath day

My sickle shall not reap!"

The master raised his heavy hand

To deal the maid a blow;

"Thou shalt!" he cried his fierce command,

And would have struck, when lo!

Nothburga whirled her sickle bright

And tossed it in the sky!

A flash, a gleam of silver light,

As it went circling by,

And there, beside a little star

Which had peeped out to see,

The sickle hung itself afar,

As swiftly as could be!

The master stared up, wondering;

Forgetting all his rage,

To see so strange and quaint a thing——

The marvel of the age.

And she, the maid so brave and good,

Thenceforth had naught to fear,

But kept the Sabbath as she would,

And lived a life of cheer.