[...] Aventine [...] loved all creatures so dearly that it is told of him even that one day, when he trod upon a snake and crushed it, he bent over it, cherishing it until life returned and it glided away.

He lived in the sixth century, being Abbot of a monastery in France; this monastery was at Troyes. He used to spend all the money he could collect in redeeming captives, and one day it chanced that a band of soldiers passed through Troyes bearing with them a captive boy. Aventine, liking his gentle face and pious mien, gave them money for his ransom, and they left the boy behind when they pursued their journey. He was called Fidolus, and to him Aventine taught the Faith and made him a monk, loving him as if he were his son.

Then, when Aventine grew old and would rest from his labours, spending his last years in prayer ere he should be called from the earth, he left the monastery to the care of Fidolus, whom the monks liked well, and retreated to the forest.

Here he lived for many years in quiet contemplation, having the birds and beasts for his friends. A monk from the monastery used to bring to the old man what food he had need of, but ofttimes, in dipping his pitcher into the river for water, tiny fish would get caught therein. These Aventine would take back to the river, for he would neither hurt nor destroy any creature save from necessity. And the animals knew this, and loved the gentle hermit; so that stags chased by the hunters would take refuge in his cell, while Aventine protected them from their pursuers.

Now, one night there came a bear to his cell and beat at the door as though it would have broken it down. It was a stormy night, and the noise of the rain and the sobbing of the wind in the tree branches mingled with the roar of the beast outside. Aventine was an old man and a feeble, so he made fast the door and prayed that the fury of the beast—as he thought—should not be allowed to harm him. And the night passed and the storm ceased, while the faint streaks of dawn showed in the eastern sky; then did the hermit unbolt his door, and behold, on the threshold lay the bear, quiet and still.

Now, when he saw Aventine he crouched at his feet, and then began to lick them in token of goodwill; then he raised one of his huge paws, looking at the hermit as much as to say: “Why, master, didst thou bolt thy door against me?” And Aventine saw that embedded in the great pad of his foot was a cruel thorn; wherefore he was sorry that he had bolted his door against the bear, and said: “Poor beast! thou wast in pain and didst seek relief, while I thought thou wast raging for my life.”

Then he took the paw and, holding it, drew forth the splinter, the bear suffering him gladly; then he bathed the wound and bandaged the paw, and soon the bear limped back into the forest.

When Aventine ate, he used to break some of the bread into small crumbs; these he held in his hand, and all the birds in the forest would fly to him, perching on his fingers or head and shoulders with fluttering wings and much chirping.

Each day the birds ate of his breakfast and sang their songs of praise; and when the last crumb had been swallowed they would fly to the tree branches and there sing their thanksgiving, so that the forest glades reechoed with the antiphons of the feathered choir.

These things did the hermit, for the love he bore towards all creatures. [...]