ircled birds whose breasts were grey as pearl and whose necks
shone purple and grass-green and rose. The noise was of their wings, for
though the birds were beautiful they were voiceless and dumb as flowers.

At the edge of the pool stood two figures, whom He knew to be of the
angelic world because of their beauty, but who had on them the illusion of
mortality so that the child did not know them. But He saw that one was
beautiful as Night, and one beautiful as Morning.

He drew near.

"I have lived seven years," He said, "and I wish to send peace to the far
ends of the world."

"Tell your secret to the birds," said one.

"Tell your secret to the birds," said the
other.

So Jesus called to the birds.

"Come," He cried; and they came.

Seven came flying from the left, from the side of the angel beautiful as
Night. Seven came flying from the right, from the side of the angel
beautiful as Morning.

To the first He said: "Look into my heart."

But they wheeled about Him, and with newfound voices mocked, crying, "How
could we see into your heart that is hidden" ... and mocked and derided,
crying, "What is Peace! ... Leave us alone! Leave us alone!"

So Christ said to them:

"I know you for the birds of Ahriman, who is not beautiful but is Evil.
Henceforth ye shall be black as night, and be children of the winds."

To the seven other birds which circled about Him, voiceless, and brushing
their wings against His arms, He cried:

"Look into my heart."

And they swerved and hung before Him in a maze of wings, and looked into
His pure heart: and, as they looked, a soft murmurous sound came from
them, drowsy-sweet, full of peace: and as they hung there like a breath in
frost they became white as snow.

"Ye are the Doves of the Spirit," said Christ, "and to you I will commit
that which ye have seen. Henceforth shall your plumage be white and your
voices be the voices of peace."

The young Christ turned, for He heard Mary calling to the sheep and goats,
and knew that dayset was come and that in the valleys the gloaming was
already rising like smoke from the urns of the twilight. When He looked
back He saw by the pool neither the Son of Joy nor the Son of Sorrow, but
seven white doves were in the cedar beyond the pool, cooing in low ecstasy
of peace and awaiting through sleep and dreams the rose-red pathways of
the dawn. Down the long grey reaches of the ebbing day He saw seven birds
rising and falling on the wi