The Saxon who more than thirteen hundred years ago made that word-picture was a poet. He did not know it, perhaps, he was only speaking of what he had often seen, telling in simple words of something that happened almost every day, and yet he has given us a picture which we cannot forget, and has made our literature by so much the richer. He has told us of something, too, which helps us to realize the rough life our forefathers lived. Even in the king's palace the windows were without glass, the doors stood open to let out the smoke from "the good fire in the midst," for there were no chimneys, or at best but a hole in the roof to serve as one. The doors stood open, even though "the storms of snow and rain prevailed abroad," and in spite of the good fire, it must have been comfortless enough. Yet many a stray bird might well be drawn thither by the light and warmth. Bede lived a peaceful, busy life, and when he came to die his end was peaceful too, and his work ceased only with his death. One of his pupils, writing to a friend, tells of these last hours.* *Extracts are from a letter of Cuthbert, afterwards Abbot of Wearmouth and Jarrow, to his friend Cuthwin. For some weeks in the bright springtime of 735 Bede had been ill, yet "cheerful and rejoicing, giving thanks to almighty God every day and night, yea every hour." Daily, too, he continued to give lessons to his pupils, and the rest of the time he spent in singing psalms. "I can with truth declare that I never saw with my eyes, or heard with my ears, any one return thanks so unceasingly to the living God," says the letter. "During these days he labored to compose two works well worthy to be remembered besides the lessons we had from him, and singing of psalms: that is, he translated the Gospel of St. John as far as the words, 'But what are these among so many,' into our own tongue for the benefit of the church, and some collections out of the Book of Notes of Bishop Isidor. "When the Tuesday before the Ascension of our Lord came, he began to suffer still more in his health. But he passed all that day and dictated cheerfully, and now and then among other things said, 'Go on quickly, I know not how long I shall hold out, and whether my maker will not soon take me away.' "But to us he seemed very well to know the time of his departure. And so he spent the night awake in thanksgiving. And when the morning appeared, that is Wednesday, he ordered us to write with all speed what he had begun. . . . "There was one of us with him who said to him, 'Most dear Master, there is still one chapter wanting. Do you think it troublesome to be asked any more questions?' "He answered, 'It is no trouble. Take your pen and make ready and write fast. . . .' "Then the same boy said once more, 'Dear Master, there is yet one sentence not written.' "And he said, 'Well, then write it.' "And after a little space the boy said, 'Now it is finished.'