On Something (Dodo Press) by Hilaire Belloc Page A

that stands thus ready to speak
(unless his eyes betray him) of so many things? Then St. Michael will
forget my name although he will know my face; he will forget my name
because I never stayed long enough in one place for him to remember it.
    "But St. Peter, because he is my Patron Saint and because I have always
had a special devotion to him, will answer for me and will have no
argument, for he holds the keys. And he will open the door and I will come
in. And when I am inside the door of Heaven I shall freely grow those
wings, the pushing and nascence of which have bothered my shoulder blades
with birth pains all my life long, and more especially since my thirtieth
year. I say, friends and companions all, that I shall grow a very
satisfying and supporting pair of wings, and once I am so furnished I
shall be received among the Blessed, and I shall at once begin to tell
them, as I told you on earth, all sorts of things, both false and true,
with regard to the countries through which I carried forward my homeless
feet, and in which I have been given such fulfilment for my eyes."
    When Peter Wanderwide had delivered himself of these remarks, which he did
with great dignity and fire for one in such extremity, he gasped a little,
coughed, and died.
    I need not tell you what solemnities attended his burial, nor with what
fervour the people flocked to pray at his tomb; but it is worth knowing
that the poet of that place, who was rival to the chief poet in Auxerre
itself, gathered up the story of his death into a rhyme, written in the
dialect of that valley, of which rhyme this is an English translation:
       When Peter Wanderwide was young
     He wandered everywhere he would;
   And all that he approved was sung,
     And most of what he saw was good.
       When Peter Wanderwide was thrown
     By Death himself beyond Auxerre,
   He chanted in heroic tone
     To Priest and people gathered there:
      "If all that I have loved and seen
     Be with me on the Judgment Day,
   I shall be saved the crowd between
     From Satan and his foul array.
      "Almighty God will surely cry
     'St. Michael! Who is this that stands
   With Ireland in his dubious eye,
     And Perigord between his hands,
      "'And on his arm the stirrup thongs,
     And in his gait the narrow seas,
   And in his mouth Burgundian songs,
     But in his heart the Pyrenees?'
      "St. Michael then will answer right
     (But not without angelic shame):
   'I seem to know his face by sight;
     I cannot recollect his name….'
      "St. Peter will befriend me then,
     Because my name is Peter too;
   'I know him for the best of men
     That ever wallopped barley brew.
      "'And though I did not know him well,
     And though his soul were clogged with sin,
    I hold the keys of Heaven and Hell.
     Be welcome, noble Peterkin.'
      "Then shall I spread my native wings
     And tread secure the heavenly floor,
   And tell the Blessed doubtful things
     Of Val d'Aran and Perigord."
    * * * * *
      This was the last and solemn jest
     Of weary Peter Wanderwide,
   He spoke it with a failing zest,
     And having spoken it, he died.

THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE
    The nation known to history as the Nephalo Ceclumenazenoi, or, more
shortly, the Nepioi, inhabited a fruitful and prosperous district
consisting in a portion of the mainland and certain islands situated in
the Picrocholian Sea; and had there for countless centuries enjoyed a
particular form of government which it is not difficult to describe, for
it was religious and arranged upon the principle that no ancient custom
might be changed.
    Lest such changes should come about through the lapse of time or the
evil passions of men, the citizens of the aforesaid nation had them very
clearly engraved in a dead language and upon bronze tablets, which they
fixed upon the doors of