Take that old slight legend (everywhere current in the north of England) of the little Christian boy, who was murdered by Jews, because he sang songs in honor of the Virgin; and who--after death--still sang, and so discovered his murderers. It is a bare rag of story, with only streaks of blood-red in it; yet how tenderly touched, and how pathetically told, in Chaucer’s tale of the Prioress! It is a widow’s son--“sevene yeres of age”--and wheresoe’er he saw the image Of Christe’s moder, had he in usage, As him was taught, to knele adown and say His _Ave Marie!_ as he goth by the way. Thus hath this widowe hire litel son y-taught To worship aye, and he forgat it naughte. And the “litel” fellow, with his quick ear, hears at school some day the _Alma Redemptoris_ sung; and he asks what the beautiful song may mean? He says he will learn it before Christmas, that he may say it to his “moder dere.” His fellows help him word by word--line by line--till he gets it on his tongue: From word to word, acording with the note, Twiës a day, it passed thro’ his throte. At last he has it trippingly; so--schoolward and homeward, as he cam to and fro Full merrily than would he sing and crie, O _Alma Redemptoris_ ever mó, The sweetnesse hath his hertë perced so. Through the Jews’ quarter he goes one day, singing this sweet song that bubbles from him as he walks; and they--set on by Satan, who “hath in Jewe’s herte his waspës nest”--conspire and plot, and lay hold on him, and cut his throat, and cast him into a pit. But--a wonder--a miracle!--still from the bleeding throat, even when life is gone, comes the tender song, “_O Alma Redemptoris!_” And the wretched mother, wandering and wailing, is led by the sweet, plaintive echoes, whose tones she knows, to where her poor boy lies dead; and even as she comes, he, with throte y-carven, his _Alma Redemptoris_ gan to sing So loude that al the placë gan to ring. Then the Christian people take him up, and bear him away to the Abbey. His mother lies swooning by the bier. They hang those wicked Jews--and prepare the little body for burial and sprinkle it with holy water; but still from the poor bleeding throat comes “evermo’” the song: _O Alma Redemptoris mater!_ And the good Abbot entreats him to say, why his soul lingers, with his throat thus all agape? “My throte is cut unto my nekkë bone,” Saidë this child, “and as by way of kynde, I should have dyed, ye longë time agone, But Jesu Christ, as ye in bookës finde, Wol that his glory laste, and be in minde, And for the worship of his moder dere, Yet may I sing, ‘_O Alma!_’ loud and clere.” But he says that as he received his death-blow, the Virgin came, and