So, as soon as the sun rose on the seventeenth of March, Michael decided this was a good day to ask for one and flew off to
congratulate St. Patrick on his feastday and see if he would help. The closest
place where St. Patrick granted audience was his collegiate church in Lorca,
and that is where Michael went.
When he got to a square next to the church what
should he find there but a fine statue of
the Angel of Fame.
“Good morning, Michael,” said the statue,
coming alive.
The Angel of Fame, who answers to the name of
Yeiayel, is a trumpeteer angel, and like many angels of this kind, when he
appears to one, his wings are often made of trumpet-shaped flowers as well as
feathers.
“Oh,” said Michael, “good morning to you too.
You know who I am?”
“And I know why you are here. You’re being
talked about lately.”
“Me? Why? I’m not famous at all.”
“Would you like to be?”
“No. No offense meant, but I don’t think I
would. I’m shy and retiring.”
“I’m not offended. I sympathize with you. You
know, I used to be up on top of the church. But fame weighs a lot. They were
afraid I would be too heavy for the roof to bear. So they put me down here in
this square.”
“Well, if you’re pleased where you’re at...”
said Michael, trying to keep the conversation going while without a clue as to
where it would lead.
“I have a piece of advice for you,” said the
angel. “Be careful what you ask for. If Curmudgeon learns to read and write, you’ll
be asked to teach more people.You’ll be flooded with difficult pupils. In fact,
you’ll become so famous you’ll never be able to give up teaching.”
“Oh, my goodness!” cried Michael. “I hadn’t
thought of that!”
“Have a nice St. Patrick’s day,” smiled the
angel, and the statue was stone again.
"Toot-toot!"
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