TAILIEUCHUNG - Brother Robber

“It is cold outside, but the soup is simmering already, and the brothers will be here soon.” The dark-haired man with the emaciated face, in which great eyes shone, looked around the little hut. “You have been quite busy, Brother Angelo. The Holy Child may well visit our hut. Would that our hearts, too, be well prepared!” “Yes, Brother Francis. | Please share a link to this e-book with your friends. Feel free to post and share links to this e-book or you may email or print this book in its entirety or in part but please do not alter it in any way and please do not post or offer copies of this e-book for download on another website or through another Internet-based download service. If you wish to make multiple hard copies for wider distribution or to reprint portions in a newsletter or periodical please observe the following restrictions You may not reproduce it for commercial gain. You must include this credit line Copyright 2011 by The Plough Publishing House. Used with permission. This e-book is a publication of The Plough Publishing House Rifton NY 12471 USA and Robertsbridge East Sussex TN32 5DR UK Copyright 2011 by Plough Publishing House Rifton Ny 12471 USA Brother Robber Helene Christaller The hut hung like a swallow s nest on the southern slope of the Apennines. Built of the same stone as the rock on which it stood it appeared a part of nature not a work of man. A small window opening was stopped with straw to keep out the cold wind that blew over the mountains. The inside looked wretched even though Brother Angelo was trying to clean and decorate the hermitage for Christmas. His brown habit was tucked up to his knees and he was sweeping together a big pile of rubbish with a homemade broom - pieces of wood and bark ashes and brushwood. At last the dirty red of the rough brick floor became visible and the young Franciscan put the broom in the corner. Satisfied he looked around the bare gloomy room. Through the halfopen door came the faint light of day together with a moist chilly draft. The monk broke a dry branch into pieces and threw them into the fire burning in a crooked brick stove. He hung a rusty kettle filled with water over the flame and shivering closed the door. The flickering flame of the stove gave a dim light to the room. It ought to be warm when .

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